The Voice

It is within grasp, miles and miles of yarn, coiled, red, black in the shadows, in the curves of the dog-shit mould. Out it comes: a blackness, a mouth, a hollow voice in the midnight black. It is the voice: a chaotic soup-like voice, a deep well of water, lazily gushing in its spit, its saliva – an accumulated pool. It swallows everything, the sound is grasped within silencing fingers, the water reaching out for the sounds, swallowing them and the mouth; it smiles like a cat, lips curled, a spot of spit in the corner of the lips, the upper lip pulled back by the nose, pulled back by the nose, pulled back by the stench which the nose has no flavour for, has no desire for, but notices nonetheless. A stench the nose notices then opens the nostrils like smugglers caves against the sea spray. The opened nostrils, wide and analysing, pulls on the philtrum, a crumpled wrinkle at the base of the septum, stretching the lips, the contorting muscle, gaping, with yellowing, tea-stained teeth uniformed soldiers standing long to attention, unmoving for generations, all action… with the tongue in behind… a muscle contorting between the lips… the pink movement which fits in no other place; a muscle group which would be most horrific if in place of the anus. Yes it is the voice which is most detrimental, the large gurgling, constant voice, thick and flat and engulfing. There is no resistance, only a wide unyielding thought which hangs like a uvula, a sack of unknown matter, a mysterious haze in the back of the mind which has yet to be discovered, uncovered, recovered; this is the only resistance against the black mouth, the black blistered lips contorting; an organic machine; unkempt and unknown. The thought hangs like a mail sac of letters by the rail line, swaying, a foreign concept, a dismissed procedure, unbecoming, overcoming the oppression… the falling succession… bright light procession… don’t move an inch… the fungal narcotics sprouting in pant-lines, black institution with a promise that the voice… the voice… the small girl eyes twisted, eyes crossed and unbending, uncaring, unknowing… the voice moves in a thick awkward metamorphosis; a permutation, a shift in the surrogate, a shift in the owner, a soft-bodied, bilateral parasitic invertebrate, oozing and cognizant, changing organic abode. Yes it is the voice; a semi-aware viral counterpart, an amoebic control centre aligning against the grey matter, fixing prehensile suckers, sensory filaments, an insert along the groves of the tongue, a new tongue, a morphing, grotesque voice of millions, gurgling and encircling the informatics, the neurons, the brain.

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