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Description

I, Homunculus
by metamage , Jun 20, 2014, 2:04:26 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Horror / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

White ribs gleam like soft pearls and hands the size of roast doves
Rattle the lock of his skeleton cage.
The bone-curves are wet.
His enormous head and outrageous feet glisten and glam
in a numinous, tissued night.

Dangling balls curve away.
They are heavy and impolite.
They drag over every spongy crevice.
He hates them.
Very much.

He was drowning in massy darkness.
He was well and truly alone, terrible in his solitude.
He scored his breasts and turned to pare the flesh
From his head, snick, snick.

And by the way . . . he is not,
Not Not Not. He is not a Homo
Not a Homosapien.
He is Homunculus.
Proud.
Bold.
Strange.

The thump-bumpity-bump heart stops.
He pokes and pokes and pokes.
It stutters and fires badly.

Trembling fingers undo
The Catch,
The Lock,
The Ward.
The Latch of Invisible Things
He once thought Invincible.
Kachunk goes the Crank.
He Cracks the Cage.
Light and Air.
There is
Air.
And light.

Breasts of Bone splint shatter
Among dross and grossly maligned things.
He is crazy to get out of here.

The rib cage goes eeeeek as he splits it wide open.
He dives through blue/black blood causeways
And aims for the mouth.
He will escape.
Teeth will go crunch.
And past the calcium fences now fractured
He is in a world of burning light,
Tossed sunward; big bag of balls and all.

Flames burn off Excess of Enormous Head
Plantainian Feet
Dingle Dangle Spheres.
He is a hot vent of ill wind looking for good eats.

The body on the couch is that of a Girly-girl -
Goldy-locks formerly, with wolfy things in her breast.
And she’s looking pretty bad.
His cage of bone prison,
The one that arched whitely around the redded, thumping, beast -
(That (almost) ceaseless organ grinder of tuneless tunes)
Well . . .
It played all night and night . . . and now it’s dead.
He shattered that girly-girl’s notions
Of pretty pearled white teeth and broken heart.

When he eased from the cage
And dropped the lock
And fled through toothy bars, when he did that
He was sucked out and up,
Out past the pink mouth.
Out past the embittered laugh.
And past the lips that creaked.
And the sun sucked his juices.

He fled and like Icarus, melted;
Burned to a grimy snit.
He won’t do that again.
Instead, he will invade and invert processes recently dead.
He will tune up the thumpty-bump to a most pleasing climax.

Homunculus aims his drippy arms and droplet tongue
At the left key hole of the nose
(Which is a grotto of muck and ooze)
And he slides his way down into
The slotted glottis.

Mr. Gigantous Head no more,
He is transformed!
The sun ate him well, but left a spark
That is not trapped in a candy bone cage with ugly vents,
Hi ho!
He roams the currents of flesh
Where a juicy berry waits to be plucked.

He shucked her heart like a bad suit, and ah, my . . .
The Silence.

He is all fluidic charm and needs no introduction.
He knows this messy girly-clump inside and out.
He can make her
Or break her
Or turn her inside out.
What fun.

He floats like a Pike under bubbles of blood
And rebuilds her with leaky parts

Or different parts.
. . . His parts.

She will be abloody brilliant!
(But there will be no more thumpity-bumping.)
It drove him crazy, that blood punting thing.
He will turn it into an installation. An art piece
For the critics to disembowel.

The girl on the couch is dead but she will not know it for a while.
He will not tell her.
It will be a nice surprise
For when she gets her teeth fixed.

Description

I, Homunculus
by metamage , Jun 20, 2014, 2:04:26 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Horror / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

White ribs gleam like soft pearls and hands the size of roast doves
Rattle the lock of his skeleton cage.
The bone-curves are wet.
His enormous head and outrageous feet glisten and glam
in a numinous, tissued night.

Dangling balls curve away.
They are heavy and impolite.
They drag over every spongy crevice.
He hates them.
Very much.

He was drowning in massy darkness.
He was well and truly alone, terrible in his solitude.
He scored his breasts and turned to pare the flesh
From his head, snick, snick.

And by the way . . . he is not,
Not Not Not. He is not a Homo
Not a Homosapien.
He is Homunculus.
Proud.
Bold.
Strange.

The thump-bumpity-bump heart stops.
He pokes and pokes and pokes.
It stutters and fires badly.

Trembling fingers undo
The Catch,
The Lock,
The Ward.
The Latch of Invisible Things
He once thought Invincible.
Kachunk goes the Crank.
He Cracks the Cage.
Light and Air.
There is
Air.
And light.

Breasts of Bone splint shatter
Among dross and grossly maligned things.
He is crazy to get out of here.

The rib cage goes eeeeek as he splits it wide open.
He dives through blue/black blood causeways
And aims for the mouth.
He will escape.
Teeth will go crunch.
And past the calcium fences now fractured
He is in a world of burning light,
Tossed sunward; big bag of balls and all.

Flames burn off Excess of Enormous Head
Plantainian Feet
Dingle Dangle Spheres.
He is a hot vent of ill wind looking for good eats.

The body on the couch is that of a Girly-girl -
Goldy-locks formerly, with wolfy things in her breast.
And she’s looking pretty bad.
His cage of bone prison,
The one that arched whitely around the redded, thumping, beast -
(That (almost) ceaseless organ grinder of tuneless tunes)
Well . . .
It played all night and night . . . and now it’s dead.
He shattered that girly-girl’s notions
Of pretty pearled white teeth and broken heart.

When he eased from the cage
And dropped the lock
And fled through toothy bars, when he did that
He was sucked out and up,
Out past the pink mouth.
Out past the embittered laugh.
And past the lips that creaked.
And the sun sucked his juices.

He fled and like Icarus, melted;
Burned to a grimy snit.
He won’t do that again.
Instead, he will invade and invert processes recently dead.
He will tune up the thumpty-bump to a most pleasing climax.

Homunculus aims his drippy arms and droplet tongue
At the left key hole of the nose
(Which is a grotto of muck and ooze)
And he slides his way down into
The slotted glottis.

Mr. Gigantous Head no more,
He is transformed!
The sun ate him well, but left a spark
That is not trapped in a candy bone cage with ugly vents,
Hi ho!
He roams the currents of flesh
Where a juicy berry waits to be plucked.

He shucked her heart like a bad suit, and ah, my . . .
The Silence.

He is all fluidic charm and needs no introduction.
He knows this messy girly-clump inside and out.
He can make her
Or break her
Or turn her inside out.
What fun.

He floats like a Pike under bubbles of blood
And rebuilds her with leaky parts

Or different parts.
. . . His parts.

She will be abloody brilliant!
(But there will be no more thumpity-bumping.)
It drove him crazy, that blood punting thing.
He will turn it into an installation. An art piece
For the critics to disembowel.

The girl on the couch is dead but she will not know it for a while.
He will not tell her.
It will be a nice surprise
For when she gets her teeth fixed.