Stream of Cosciousness, No Real Title

Fly to the moon wearing polka dot
shirts while headbanging listlessly
to unheard loud music in someone else's
head. Raw, tragic music which speaks
of denial, guilt and pain. Mind numbing
pain, soul ripping pain which incapacitates, 
intoxicates, and thrills, all while the 
spaceship hurtles unstoppable through
the void at ridiculous speeds, all while
feeling nothing and everything while
safely going for broke at the 11th hour
no chance to back out before time stops 
and starts, and stops and starts leaving 
footprints in the sand, deep, ragged
footprints as if they were made by 
some hideously grotesque yet crudely
appealing beast with 3 eyes, all black
and below its gaping mouth which could
swallow the pilot of the spaceship, and
have room left for the operator's manual
and the collected works of Shakespeare
and a typewriter, the old kind with
ink and paper and the ding at the
end of the line, like the warning bell 
in the cockpit telling the narcoleptic 
pilot to brake, who is oblivious on
LSD, whose co-pilot is in the
passenger cabin having wild sex with
a total stranger, who hears the 
warning and saves the ship from 
fiery, obscenely total destruction
and then collapses from lack of 
oxygen as she hits the wrong switch
evacuating the air in the pilot's compartment
causing the instant death of the whacked 
out pilot and permanently damaging her
brain even as the co-pilot ejaculates
and returns to duty in time to save her
life and the ship and land at the base
safely, much to the relief of the other
passengers who scramble out of their
too small seats into the base and to
destinations as varied as the DNA of
the european swallow. The end.

-Written sometime in early 1997

The Writing Page

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