Notes from the Archangel of Aldi
1. Anyway she said, there’s room for another room inside this room, a substitute for a universe painted blue. Don’t unclip your petroleum belt here. Follow the pseudopods and psychiatrists, those chemical imbalances, the fractal geometry of eleven footpaths into the teeth and dark. Perform a U-turn of inter-galactic mentality and you’ll find yourself spectacularly inside an astral and indefinable someone else. If you try to look order in the eye all you’ll find is the blind syllables of a story staring back. Sing with the signifiers who sing to the road so the road will fold herself into a bio-chromatic body (who never speaks to nobody except himself). And if you run out of blood, remember it’s better to bleach your blue spot than hide a fetish in a cut. By the way, she said, have you ever got lost in a box of chimpanzees while watching Casablanca on a colour T.V? If not, try it, because all these people don’t exist.
2. The Locus goes to sleep during sleep in conditions requiring the attention of her dreams. She watches the norepinephrine arise with clusters of dopamine stars. Her identical nuclei is active and neurotic possessing similar brain connections to a suffering New Romantic strung out by reflections in an pond. I was lying on the sofa watching the structure of a suicidal wasp swallow a window in the seclusion of a hemispheric dusk. High on gamma but lacking intuition it flew inside a minor incision in the limbic region of a temporal holiday. The Locus sings the language of Medulla Oblongata, her voices morph in Gaba rising in the cortex of a river. She scans the sway and curve of her cigarette and slowly brushes her optic nerve. Her fibres shiver briskly in her skull.
3. Yes we are bored we are all bored now and someone who is bored is asleep and someone who’s asleep will not say no. I was sitting on a gland with my eyes closed closer to the ocean than I’d ever been, a unitary shopper sinking behind the sacred screen of shopper eating myself away until there was nothing left but hunger. Hemingway’s hamburger sweated hellishly on the sand. I watched the waves until the lads came back blistered bright and brospinal. Each one of their grinning faces was either a fiction of eternity, an expression of an endorphic reality, or the work of a monetary god working twelve-hour shifts in a Birdseye factory, I couldn’t be sure. No good for work I watched the waves, pretending not to notice the poet feeding poems to the poet inside the artificial light in the night-time where everything shines as it disappears.
4. The sociopath in blue smuggles tertiary-butyl hydroquinone past the security guard on the second floor. As he swipes benignly by, his sequences and syncopations catch the muscular attention of the boys. How many sociopaths and soya beans have you had in your mouth? One shouts out. It’s like losing your uncle in a jungle, says another, or entering the nanoscale carrying blood and lemons through the emptiness. The sociopath, inert and mysterious, frames Forever on the linear surface of the saviour’s sequined dress, splashes luster and oyster on the holy wall of mitochondria, subdues the juice believers and subverts the rest who threaten to meet and never meet except in the eye of a black hole swallowing mouthfuls of incendiary bluebottles whose last words are carried into the sun.
5. Different blood same party eating itself listening to Horace Silver and the gospel according to silicon ether. Her voice teaches its own infinity as it calls out from shelf to shelf, calls out, control the artificial colours before there’s no one left to sell. Both difference and similarity are the ubiquitous enemies in this pyrophosphate low-calorie cemetery. Yesterday a girl called Meryl drowned inside the signals emanating from a nano-box of methyl. Her spirit hid inside a leaf until the logarithmic growth climbed back inside the meat. The end-user no one would believe, she was taxidermied and taken to a vault inside a tree. Two indentured seagulls lubricate the air with songs of love, longing for the great logo stretched across their lungs. Some say the logo’s subsidiary will come in the form of a bird. Others say it will be a gun buried in a gun.
6. The ontogenesis of the sensible sentient sprang up in the surface of a depth. Neo-natal and not a problem it incorporates its curves into the universe it interrogates. Its mass is measured by the operation of these curves as they accumulate and navigate the insoluble indivisibles of the negative. It has no regrets. Nor is the representations it reciprocates locked in its spatiotemporal currents when it hibernates. It doesn’t sleep for long. It seeks solitude in commerce and becomes incarnate in this solace, the only fact of its existence is yet unknown.
Niall McCabe is from Derry and currently lives in Dublin, Ireland. His writing has featured in various publications, including Abridged, The Attic, The Belleville Park Pages, The Columbia Review, Icarus, and Trinity Journal of Literary Translation. He reads regularly at Cave Writings and was chosen as one of the featured writers to partake in their exhibition, Cave Paintings.
Image Credit: Héctor J. Rivas
Categories: Flash Fiction