SYZYGYMAN
A Gothic Modern | Chapter Three : Mauve Chocolate On The Moon
SYZYGYMAN
or,
THE CONTEMPORARY PROMETHEUS
In Three Chapters
Consumption is not a passion for substances but a passion for the code. — Jean Baudrillard
Chapter Three : Mauve Chocolate On The Moon
Nothing is so dark as the Daytime.
Particularly the Daylight in the Daytime. It is menacing. It is terrifying. It is —
Unworldly.
In the Nightime, you see nothing. In the Daytime — You see everything. You are blasted by everything. Compounded by everything. Multiplied by everything. Including it’s Nothing.
It is the Daytime that is vampiric. Not the Nightime. It sucks everything from you. It leans on you. Presses you like a butterfly. Between its glass. Between its thighs. With everyone peering in. Looking for escape. Escape out of the Daylight. And into the Night.
Where we can be fed again. And be filled. And eat. Rather than eaten.
Eaten by the Day.
And so here we must travel. To something that is quite like the Dayside of the Moon. It’s Lightside. More like it’s chocolate side. With big chunks burroughed out in order to escape its razor-sharp resolution. Its clenching focus. Comical Nightcaps and gowns followed by knobby skeletal ankles and patch’tup socks diving down the milk chocolate rabbit holes, nicking their skin in their bunny outfits. A glisten of wet purple Negative Plus Minus Positive Types glyphing up the crater’s edges. Hare’m Scare’m. Mauve Chocolate now.
A Mauve Chocolate Moon!
Bore’d through by drill-killer mice dress’d up in rabbit suits.
The Daytime is a killer indeed.
°°
And so it is, on this side of the Moon that I see her. Will be the last time. For now.
I see her in the Day Room. With its moldy design’d wallpaper. Its dank De Stijl touches. Its archaic Saliva Modernism. All clinging on for Dear Life. All of us.
Except Her.
She lays wasting away at Nothing.
Her atoms have scattered. The eaves of Her bounds have straightlined. Bolted out the door. She never touches the ground now. She’s tuck’t in. Her creep is on tap now. No one wants it but me. Her best customer. Her best Consumer in Life.
O, but She drags the Daylight with Her tongue now, Wags the Daylight! She’s all tongue now. Mopping the Daylight round this fortunate room, dabbing it, darting and flitting the clit of the room as if She has found it. As if She was Founded by it. Or Plunder’d by it. Supping the Daylight up as if there were no Tomorrow — But Now! My ears eyes nose and teeth are ringing. And I realize how firm I am. How tough. How tight I’ve become in the Egyptian Lick of this soppy tomb’d womb. I am a soggy Moon. Wet. Purple. About to explode.
I Am The Clitoris of this tough Purple Moon.
And Her Too-Living tongue has squeez’d me into an Ante-Living Frenzy.
Everything! — b’come White!
SYZYGYMAN
SYZYGYMAN or, THE CONTEMPORARY PROMETHEUS In Three Chapters Always go too far, because that's where you'll find the truth. — Albert Camus