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Gaspar Noe’s Enter the Void photo

Hanging panties like cat skin, or Books of Dead and leaving in nighties. The jambs are so low. Lights on high are anything but warm. That pipe is what we think it might be: lost focus. He just can’t stop. His brains turned centipede, to vertebrae, then mushrooming red smoke. Widow’s peak and wonderlands: we can hear them both sizzle. Under queasy seas it all starts looking dandelion, cellular levels. At this point, it’s not clear how far there is to ascend. Wild roots and mitochondria; fine chains of voice. Glittering screens big as all Tokyo. What’s inside reaches out for air, for kind water, for moonbeam. Looks as if blood runs like blood after all. Beards in the light, itching toward alley. Gravel sinks in a little further than the rest. Everything false-topped. Cans stuffed with all manner of roads toward death. His hair like wings, soup in the skull. Following royal purple through the middle of night. Lights are making a serious run for it. Stepping on toes: he’s choosing the life that suits best. Lead us to your beautiful sister! Purple making a plod toward pink and the wet. Off-white suits and Japanese belly. Datura, datura, then down again. The tone of stairs is off, some sick pummeled glow. This is the mountain we are made to have made, rich bloods rush peaks. He put his hands in it and now we can all see the sticky too-red. At full dark blossom, the penetrated void gives up its only gleam. Angular sound behind both eyes. She hasn’t been able to climb the same filthy stairs as we have and we wonder at the top if she would actually want to. He is belly-clutching while we are fetal and bloody chin touching. We don’t think she’d choose to watch a brother bleed out on pissy tiles, wide eyes filmed and softening pill scatter with wild blood. These are not the hands we want down her pants. That one screams like strung pigs, but he is not the one harboring metals. Follow the running royalty on high, at least twenty feet from any sex. A live body wiping itself along the floor. Thinly-veiled organs, sluggish mouths, smearing night shades. He’s got her up against the wall and we’ve passed through so many motherfucking layers all of our heads spin. A red satin silent carnival with the temperature too high. Did she tell you there are silk shorts behind the belt and that nipples are like strawberry candy and that her neck will sweat? High-shine, high-shoes, money burning through bones in her hand. She reties the bow and we all think how amazing it is the body can stand such use. I also lament how untidy her hair has become in the process. We watch the copper scarf as she watched his death. Knees clutched, we could tell the news wasn’t sitting well. Now, we’re all waiting for a bit of a vomit and ready to dab her mouth with softest handkerchiefs. Seeing her this way forces me to hold her in my heart as a baby tremble, something damp, delicate. We all see her this way. Then I think about the kind of sandcastles she made under the brother with blood down the back of his neck. They are both shiny with the work of it. They both press sliced young thumbs and we applaud them for it. I applaud loudest because I believe most fervently in their cause. There is a part of us that wants to say fuck-fuck to relentless hollow neon. When the back of him presents its sinew, the mothering types start sucking lips. When they notice the spade of his hair, his leftover ears, they offer breasts. Though he takes them, we all know it’s not about milk. As Spirit, he has stumbled upon the sex of his sister. We are all impressed with the filthiness and gloss. Pressed slacks pressed are meant to inspire confidence, but look like simple invitations. We wish he’d unzip and enter slowly with a warm hand. We already know the little one with big hair will be the Death of him, so we condemn flashback, condemn pre-memory. On ground, they all look a bit too shaved and it’s hard to relax with military hints becoming heavier by the moment. But flesh-play seems to soften even the stiffest so we decide we’ll pet muscles from the inside out with an unending slickness. Something that can’t be replicated. Her teeth are so white and her face is so bare I’m having a hard time imagining how hot pink her pussy is. Once the months fast-forward, we’ll see hard lines of the final sculpture and so will he. He’ll let her lick and suck his neck despite identical blood.  We watch them in black silk and pink rabbit and drugs under tongues. He wants to untie the gold strings that hide the bits we all want to press. Music doesn’t match the ponytail, but ponytail matches the fist. He catches her before she hits sidewalk. We watch their mouths hover and most of us hope. Retract. We all think it’s amazing how far she can spread legs, even under queasy lights. We count how many bodies are polluted, pollute. We count the number of thin mustaches and small food, pills like tonic peanuts in the cupboard. He holds gold under his nose, inhaling sister. Which brass trope have we all transgressed? As days speed by, speed by, we notice her voice gravel, her hems shrink. We notice his voice flushing, his blood heating up. Those with the fullest pockets have the gauntest faces, but no one else seems to notice. If he would turn around the right way, we could ask him about scars. It’s a fact: rooms are cold and haphazard. Door frames edged with edged women on knees. Light pokes in no matter what. There’s a sheet down around her hips like a goddess, but too late. We all agree, because of character, to pull it off rather than up. And I wonder where the fulcrum was? When did we stop wanting to protect and move into a greed for reveal? He opens the can. His dark friend opens the can. They enter, as we do, between fingers of night. Twice he’s been shot in the back and twice we’re relegated to ceiling, watching eyes milk. Second succession is much more snake. He is scrubbed away. White bridge dissolved. His death a black-hole we mightily stick ourselves in, swept into arial futures of East. Tablets dropping like snowy candy. We watch that sister shake, and still, want to pull off her pants with everyone else. She’s not there to insert him into vaults, and this is why! Then into bald flame, where the end of him is the end of him. We wait on high for them to tap into expensive cylinders all that’s left. She begins to start fires of her own. I put my palm over one and finally take her seriously. Her breasts don’t interest me any longer. Her skinniness seems mean. Spying the small rat with big hair in a small room: we hope they get the best of him. Maybe a little blood about the mouth. Just a little, because we maintain the tiniest sympathy for the fact the new ash once fucked his live mother. Just a little, because it is not the biggest crime. A slide down the chevron and we’ve all landed back on asses in air. Her panties are bigger. We’re changing too. In the halo of salt lamps, I learn of her baby as she learns of her baby. I still have the most sympathy, but tides are changing. Think back to him neglecting his studies! The book in his hand could have put an arrow or two in his pocket. Instead, he travels wormholes, heavily invested in knocking the new life from her. Believe it or not, crosses cross necks. Mothers breaking down all around us. We still try for a peek down her pants. This is the point where I enter flame. They are pushing things into her cervix and scrambling the almost. Is it now we pity her? Or now? He continues to slide over mute city, making no move. The evidence: tiny meat in a kidney pan. We are meant to intuit he touched her like we wanted to. At last, the last is coughed up. We feel the need to shield our eyes from final assaults; the constant slip overhead is starting to turn our stomachs. I hold it in, but as everyone knows, it is soul-blemishing. He pulls our girl near and all of us expect him to turn her over despite coughing on grief. To our surprise: he doesn’t. A small warmth. Glitter stuck in the hilts after all. The higher he gets, the faster it fades. The river is air, a shock to us all. I leave him, leave her, leave them in the pink and the green and fog. If I find myself here again, I will have read from top to bottom and no twist or trap toilet will throw me off track. I thank the lucky stars and urban belly and stamina of man for blessed fog on windows and the hand I’m allowed to press. We can’t help but be shocked at the violence in which they all bleed out in vehicles. If we could, I’d suggest rewinding so far there is no chance of finding the same path again. I promise, we agree, it is not worth neon gas, miniature puzzles, the cut fat. There is so much to choke on, best not even begin. Doorway after doorway, every way to gag. We all thought light and slivers and the pills down the hatch would slick the sides of this mess so the lot of us could slip past. But believe me: there are invisible thorns, endless hidden potential for snag. So in the end, as all smart souls, we let light devour us and them and all of it. Turning the raging whole into bleakest, painless gold.