I ripped a thousand bongs

He gibbered bleeps and bloops, a multitude of onomatopoeic utterances sent forth to distract him from his bewilderment and sedation and unseeing listlessness towards the world around him. He found a rhythm, and adapted the sounds to fit, excited, thinking he had created something new for once. But no, stone faced he realised it was the theme for news at six.  Why was his shit so played out? He felt revulsion at repetition, his skull felt like an upturned satellite reception dish, a misshapen parabola, barely containing the overhanging soft, drippy mass of his brain, infected with ugh whatevernevermind.

He looked to his right as he lay in his bed, saturated with apathy, and saw that he had a relationship with a woman. She had a frightening and intense rapport with her clickedy click machine on which her dainty fingers danced a furious jig, an interpretive dance that relayed her intent to an unknown cadre. She didn’t register his symphonic outburst. All communication had broken down, the signals and the vibes were inscrutable amongst a blithering of animal noises and comfort speech that had lost all meaning.  They had a relationship, but what was it and what did it mean? Where was it going? It had a name, but the word, like the rest of their exchange had become imprecise and bloated.

He looked left and musty, acrid warmth hit his face. Looked like it was still burning, so he telegraphed to an appendage, and a few moments later it flew past his face in a sort of spastic blur, matching precisely the imprecision of the command. And shit; now there was bong water on the carpet and there had been a shrill burst from his right that had all the force of the sound of a gunshot. He felt like one of those stills; a particularly glass jawed facial structure caught right in the moment of impact against a clenched fist. It startled him, and he rolled out of bed in his surprise, a pathetic, saggy frame stood sadly in the puddle. There was more movement, and he was alone. His thoughts loose and heavy, like bored rocks coming away from a coarse string, unwound and unattached, gently commanded him into bed. He closed his eyes and withdrew into a reverie of dancing images, auditory hallucinations begetting synaesthetic lights, and with hazy breaths settled into a sleepy rhythm.


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