THIS INK IS SPILLING EVERYWHERE

 

This ink is spilling everywhere.

Don't be confused by the color and texture of the plasma.

It's just an illusion, with a mixture of smoke and a dash of mirrors.

 

"mmm…my favorite."

 

My stomach is bloated with consequences and inconsistencies.

Spoon fed by college graduates wearing bloody aprons.

Their presents make me uneasy.

 

"uggh…i think i'm going to be sick."

 

Popped.

Spread across the floor is disguised lies.

Liquid hurt with what appears to be…noodles...!?

"Noodles??"

 

"i…don't remember eating that."

 

Walking over my au jus repercussion and catch 22's, leaving behind marks.

My foot prints begin to take their own steps.

No longer will they be content with staying put.

 

"stop!"

 

Shouting then pause.

I realize my prints are neither here.

Nor there.

But everywhere.

 

"strange…"

 

But who am I to deny myself of a good ol' fashion back track.

Under the ceiling.

Over the floor.

I walk.

Walk.

Stroll.

 

Tip.

Toe.

Nice.

And.

Slow.

 

"wait…"

 

Until it is revealed, that nothing is as it seems.

Laughter is heard behind the wall.

Fist clenched, I swing wildly at the mocking divider.

 

My hands bloody and pulpy.

My body drained of angst.

I fall deeply into my shadow, where all is calm.

 

"hello?…never mind, just let me rest."

Lewis Solo is 24 years old and rests his hat in every changing Western Village of New York City. He has also been featured in the fourth issue of Dance to Death. He is constantly writing and thinking of ways to change the world with floating text. His most recent work can be seen posted in blog form on the all powerful social networking website called Myspace.

Dance to Death, Issue VIII

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.