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your egg-hunt is invasive. |
12.08.2003 |
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latch key grew up to be like me. simpleton skeleton sends seismic waves that smash my knees. a place where whispers are heard over voices. voices sound alarmed anyways. dust makes me feel old. feeling old makes me feel empty. at what i have missed.
your vision is cut. things cut like butter-knives. thats what everyone says. watch me shudder in front of you. i shake my head. i bury my face and hide scratches. there is dirt on the floor. if it is quiet, i am hearing things.
a gun is framed on the wall. memory says that it is made of paint. oil based. my mind is made up. of crippled thoughts. questioning looks. receive blank responses. time elapses only to mend scratches. they may be cuts though. butter-knives dont scratch. thats what everyone says.
negligence waves on his way out. a parade queen turning her palm at me. there is a hum in the basement. hands on the floor. persephone's frantic heels vibrate through the wood. alarm trips my muscle. it's the sound of my racing heart. my hands clasp on my ears. to hush the alarm.
you are in the walls. armed. protector is at the door with a plastic bag. her knocks could be my shotgun pulse. i think my demons should line up single file. so i can see them. the door is still calling. and i dont know.
latch key grew up to be like me. plastic house. plastic neighborhood. time without continuity. negligence walks out the front door. back later as protector. my head already shaky. it happened in the basement. and all i could hear was the vibrations i felt on the floor. i would say that im afraid. but i dont know what that means.
the walls have eyes. thats what people say. i can see lashes. and a clavicle. and fingers with traces of paint. oil based. you cant hear a dress hit the floor. only a hum. memory produces an image of when i was downstairs. the wall watches unabated. it goes unrequited. my face falls into folded arms. hero has drained from my blood. if it was there to begin with. i cant face the basement. i'd faint.
faintly, a paper bag crumples in the wind in-between knocks. i'd fall. it'd pull the strings that hold me. horror is watching the string flutter to the floor. falling with it. i cant ever let that... again. i look at the door and push my hands harder against my ears. eyes closed i squint to check the wall's stare.
my eyes open to ask how you did that. i didnt think it was real. and they close again. |
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| 12:24 am |
the kidnap kid said this. |
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| more frequent updates? |
yes, yes, children. we are back! be sure to sign up at the mailing list below to receive notices on phrensick updates.
we will be updating our list shortly to those of you IDIOTS that checked up on the site while we were on an eight-month hiatus! |
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| mailing list! |
sick of visiting phrensick and seein' the same old un-updated site? well, join the mailing list and be alerted to new posts.
go to the contact page... remember to put in your email address... and put "add list" in the body.
god, phrensick's always on the cusp of technology. |
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| POLL |
last night, phrensick polled the current 40-man roster of the MILWAUKEE BREWERS to find out their favorite and least favorite posts.
2003 Milwaukee Brewers favorite post:
XANDER'S "Owimoweh, Owimoweh."
2003 Milwaukee Brewers least favorite post:
SUI GENERIS'S "Popcorn Carts."
(poll was taken of the seven players that returned their questionnaires) |
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| response to POLL |
all i have to say to the milwaukee brewers: sarcasm and base hits... who would've guessed the brew crew couldn't get either?
~sui generis |
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