Solustation panting—paint breathing, its gold covering an earlier silver across the face, through a bag regurgitating wet air. Lucifer is holding your heart from within. The sounds of warpling accusations under the tree and its tire swing, this tree from childhood. Lucifer speaks like a voice down a narrow hallway, yellow with forgotten memories, saying, “Lucifer speaks like a voice down a narrow hallway, yellow with forgotten memories, saying, ‘Lucifer speaks like a voice down a narrow hallway, yellow with forgotten memories, saying—don’t leave—don’t, no.’”
Gold shines through the burning skull, a dawn crystallizing the form with the pressure of curb stomping, a heart breaking cheerfully in warmly choke loves. Lucifer is understood.
“Godly sayings!” Jumping from the arching back, it praises the Lord Lucifer.
“I can’t!—I can’t!” Heart strangled more by strokes of love.
“Talking who!?” Tongue foams with yellow from a throat hall screaming through strep.
He sees himself below, and he knows he isn’t answering his question. The chosen one stomps on his copy with devil might, punching through his neck with a heel, dragging his neck by a fracture to stone.
“Say God!” Screams.
“God?” The man looks up with a disfigured neck impossible, like a clothes hanger bent for crime.
“The himself who stomps on his copy says to himself, ‘Oh.’”
The himself who stomps on his copy says to himself, “The himself who stomps on his tail by teeth is repeating itself.”
“Oh,” the one standing over his copy says to himself.
They are both calm now. They both look at each other, in a calm surprise realization. The man on the ground, covered in blood, starts crying now: “It’s okay, Lucifer…” His tears pour and roll over paint unmoving from face. Lucifer, yourself, looks down and tells the copy, “I hate you, ouroboros.” They both smile now.
Their image shatters like a television, the static breaking, and a good puppet stands at a broken pink television, covered in gold: “Yaldabaoth is betrayed.”
The absolute vacancy beats at the prison wall of the heart; Lucifer tells him, “You are God.”
“Oh…” says the good puppet, realizing himself, and he walks outside.
Outside, the good puppet, bald in gold, finds another one of himself on the ground, his neck still disfigured, the same copy. He is in a broken smile, a fixed pose. He kicks himself in the head, and every blunt fix leaves him still smiling. The hemorrhage and concussion of the brain are tossing in a skull on fire, bouncing up and down in the celebrative joy of Lucifer’s pleasure—full paint. With every kick, the copy gets closer to blissful tearing; he begins to cry with a warm smile that pouts with a lip stuck out bizarrely. Every kick to the head frees him with hedonistic revelation.
The bag falls out of his mouth. He looks up at the tree, the tire swinging. A toy or puppet of a boy is swinging in overalls. His fake voice cassette tells him, “Lucifer, you’re stupid.” His smile jovial. The gold man, sitting against the tree, begins to laugh in disbelief; his head falls over into the dirt patch below the swing, in between the grass.
The heart speaks: “I am laughter, and I keep you thin.”
The ribs of the gold man rise and fall as he chuckles to himself.