patient zero longs for the slab of pig, he talks of nurses, the smell of barbecue rising from their light pink uniforms, they with their face masks and white bra straps, making his star groin shine.
the slab of pig is the first place of his dreaming, black grease on the walls, a medieval kind of drunken palace, warriors made from other kinds of hard skinned meat, alcohol befitting Plutonian Death Gods.
slab of pig, punctured by the serrated blade, patient zero handles the sharp edge like a childhood game of paper cuts, taking turns with small points of erotic incision, tiny ant bites of pleasure.
he lounges on the filth sofa
“you remember the crocodile scene…” he reminds me.
i’m allowing the midazolam to work wonders, or perhaps, the wonder is already here, considering my actual communion with patent zero at this historical sofa.
“I remember the siblings. the leather masks, her hair so dry. it was the brother who embraced the croc.”
“it was his hair you remember…”
one cannot follow the path of logic, only the path of medicine for treating troubled sleeping and agitation. the patient belongs on a page, not in memory, or perhaps, he is extracted from a bygone memory, to come alive again on the page. that period of the pills, received without prescription, taken as experiments, that period of induction, that’s where the contact was made, that’s where the society of night was made. that’s where i met the first siblings.
“we fucked and fucked in the dungeon, body fluids sliding on PVC, on urine coated floors, on walls that understand the intimacy of screaming and excruciating ejaculation. but like the animals, we do not believe in pain as suffering. as animals, we only understand pain as a dimension of existence; naturally occurring, pitched at the same frequency as intense laughter and its not so strange bedfellow, the orgasm.”
patient zero understands the complexity of the slab of pig. he takes a hot slice into his mouth. I lounge on the sofa, naked, salivating, watching him eat. he offers me some, but i politely refuse. in the dreams of medicine men, there is no hunger.