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Thread: Tinfoil

  1. #1
    Registered User
    Join Date
    Jul 2017


    Standing inside my kitchen I start
    pulling the damaged
    drawer by the clean,
    yellow sink and thinking
    of people; I withdraw
    the cardboard box of tinfoil
    I bought yesterday; my experience
    is upside down. The sharp and jagged
    fangs fastened to its lower lip have mangled
    my fingers so many times I can’t count the scars
    and sore scabs staining my skin. I set the cardboard
    casing on the counter and fold the top back and fixate
    on the cold, metallic cylinder, and that familiar warmth
    from it blossoms and buzzes. I drag the sheet of metal-tongue
    out of the box and begin to layer it around my midsection,
    chest, hands and feet; the crunching of the metal-sheet
    tongue sounds like dead bubble wrap. It terrifies
    me that it doesn’t cover all the parts of me; all the parts
    of me unprotected hum cacophonous sobs; I need more, but I can’t bear
    going to the grocery store: the cars in the parking lot and the people
    in the aisles always make my skin start to shake, and the wrinkles
    of the foil repetitively rattle like the tail of a rattlesnake.
    Running the faucet and filling a glass full I drink
    until it’s half-empty; I can taste old chlorine,
    and my palms begin to froth and puke salt;
    I’ll soon feel safe once I buy some more tinfoil.
    As I make my way to the grocery store, gnarled,
    old tree branches grasp for me like starved vampire bats eagerly
    draining the blood of the purple impurities that bleed out of my panicked
    breath and breathe it in; and the creases of the tinfoil are pooling with cooling sweat.
    Walking upside down down the wrong side of the sidewalk, torrid with the shivering wind,
    I form fences out of my fingers and peer through the slits as I press both sets of prints
    to my forehead, and their horrid, dry skin smells like searing cigarettes; the night sky
    and my pupils are dark dungeons with little-light windows that are too bright
    for staring at; staring at a white clearness for too long can change cloudless
    stars into lost, breathless waves of air that will never wash the crevices
    of my lonely lungs. Eyeballing the parked cars and tall buildings
    I step passed their strange windows that are too dark
    and blotched to spot any sign of change inside.
    A lying cat licking its fur on the curb of the street
    jolts at the full, flat sound of my thin, tin armor;
    it runs and dives under a hole-filled wooden fence and hides.
    A skeleton-engine with a warped, amorphous shadow behind its wheel
    lets out a guttural belch from the depths of its stomach, and its eyeballs
    blind me in a staring-contest. My fidgeting fingers close over my eyelids
    so my bare retinas can recover from the trauma caused by the blare.
    Its rust-like glass rattles to the bottom of the driver’s window
    frame, and hearing its wheels turning in a half-circle in the gravel
    and dirt persuades me to caution my pace; the sight of the shadow
    at the end of the street where I need to turn left to the store
    is causing my heart to scream and beg, and the shivering bones
    in my rib cage are filled with ancient, dead snow.
    A form of death is snarling close to me with a faceless
    and nameless driver. As I turn left into a darkness, the tires
    of the roaring motor spit out pebbles from the pressure
    of the cracked tread and the heavy blackness of an abyss;
    the rubber spins and peels its rotten skin off the raw, ash-colored
    pavement. The background sounds rage rapidly, and there’s no mirage
    of hope. Its thunder-and-lightening rumble spears the neighborhood
    and my good eardrum. My adrenal glands spike from the banshee-
    cries growing closer, and my dizzy legs turn into timid rabbits
    with widened eyes. The blackened frame of the apocalyptic
    car is getting bigger by every slow second, and my tinfoil
    is shedding piece by piece leaving in the desolate
    street a failure to save the fragments of my sacred
    sanity from something similar to a silhouette
    in a nightmare; a soulless, pale creature.
    Through backyards, stumbling over rusty
    lawnmowers and old memories, fence
    after fence, my sprinting and hurdling fade
    away the guttural motor firing its venomous
    sound. Entering the grocery store parking lot
    I notice that there are only empty plastic
    bags floating in staccato movements
    with the grace of drunk ghosts.
    The light illuminating the white lines
    and pavement have a horror-film-feel,
    and the smell of dead oranges and oatmeal
    bloat the air with an ethereal, thin thickness
    like dead stars in the belly of a dying universe.
    The sliding doors are locked open,
    and I enter the store slowly with no tinfoil
    to protect me from my anxiety. The flickering
    fluorescent lights snap on and off fast
    like flashes from a continuous camera
    and reminds me of future-memories
    of being examined by scary, dead animals
    with fingernails and terrible haircuts
    that hang me up by my brittle ankles
    and drop me from the tops of black
    skyscrapers in a place of opulent cages
    and candy-cyanide. Searching the aisles
    there are no workers or customers to face;
    and there is no tinfoil to be found. Suspended
    in the sky and looking at the upside-down-floor above,
    the blood rushing to my head and making it heavy
    with oxygen and spider eggs that give birth
    to all the things inside my fragile, alabaster
    skull (except hope), I rub the glass lenses
    of my coated corneas; they are blotched, and mucus
    from my nostrils stream into the corners of my eyes
    and blend with my tears. I reach for a tinfoil balloon
    drifting on by hoping this mirage will soon stop.
    Last edited by MiltonSatyr; 09-15-2019 at 09:45 PM.

  2. #2
    Registered User tailor STATELY's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2009
    Gold Country
    A psycho-visual feast!

    L19 "bare" looks suspect: bear ?

    I notice that there are only empty plastic
    bags floating in staccato movements
    with the grace of drunk ghosts.
    ... Saw the following on Ridiculousness today and found on the web:

    Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),

    who am I but a stitch in time
    what if I were to bare my soul
    would you see me origami


  3. #3
    Registered User
    Join Date
    Jul 2017
    Thanks for catching that error. Thought I got most of it; so much text. haha
    That video was funny :P lol
    Thanks for reading.

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