The Unanswered Ring

.8:00 pm

A day passed.

He sat somewhere else for a little while. Every thing around him was deadly still except for his stream of cigarette smoke. The few things that he had to think about were too painful so he didn't think about anything at all. He closed his eyes and that hurt too much so he opened them and tried to focus on nothing.

It was the kind of hangover that took the flavor out of his cigarettes - a mouthful of damp cardboard. Sand and ground up bits of glass worked all through his brain. Hot needles pierced his eyes.

It was the kind of hangover coated by nameless regrets. Certain that he'd said all the wrong things, he was now speechless. There are only two words for remorse and those words aren't enough.

He sat alone and missed her. She had taken the leather off his tongue and made him lick his own ass. That's what his life tasted like right then. It tasted like ass. He tried to cure it with caffeine and nicotine but those only amplified his discomfort. He tried more beer and whiskey and weed and he was right back where he started.

His telephone made hourly attempts to reach her telephone but her telephone wouldn't talk to his telephone. He listened sadly to the unanswered ring.

Fanatic Gardens is a triple shot of Wild Turkey that burns as it heals. It's 33 pitchers of beer of piss of beer drying in an alley on a sidewalk in a bush smelling really nice. In a puddle of booze piss on a sidewalk - if you look close, you'll see ex-genius brain cells there in that piss. It's a quantum theory, a geometric postulate, a binary buzzword.

He ran his fingers through his hair. He shook off an empty thought. He stepped on a memory of a bug. He imagined a bottle of beer. He farted. He blinked. He took three steps back.

Fanatic Gardens is doing Eris in all of her orifices while she does you in all of yours: 3.69. It's an eternity trapped in a room with 33 clones of Eris. Wall to wall a moving mural - the dynamic mixture of life and decay. Thirty-three clones of Eris: each with a distinct, twisted sense of humor; each with a distinct, exciting way of being pleasured; each with a distinct, original way of pleasuring; each a different angle, a unique facet of one.

One was divided by 33 and the result was recorded. Those pages of numbers were put in a box and it was hoped that time would not bring them to decay. But sure enough, a third of that divine result was lost in the process of termite digestion. Zeros and threes - lost forever.

She said, "Let's fuck like it was the Earth!"

He watched the train as it slowed and stopped counting cars. He left a haiku at twelve syllables.

Fanatic Gardens are words profusely spoken to self. Words and visions. Heard, seen. A paintbrush applied to canvas. Brush, pen - in the naive hands of an imbecile - guided correctly by angels. Fanatic Gardens is a truth there are no words for. A million different ways to tell one lie. It's a color you can only see under direct sunlight.

It was the kind of hangover that put you to sleep at night. Dreams bubbling fermented frothing. Chinese characters. Random imprints. Elbows stinking. Drums pounding. Shotgun blast echoing down a dirty alley.