from I Blew Up A Regional Aiport
I blew up
a regional airport. There was debris floating down indifferent. A
frothy tourist emerged unscathed to gallop towards destiny.
Who can’t limp in this weather? According to some
freestanding muscle down at the ashy former bathroom, hamstring
reverberations echo no matter how cavernous the terminal. I don't
believe it. I didn’t believe it. I failed to consult my
hostages. They would have preferred earplugs & an escape duct.
I blew up their preferences. They glittered through the air with the
insistence of a detector detecting metal.
I wasn’t expecting survivors. Then sad but hopeful violins
cut in, so I knew. I went looking for them immediately but
couldn’t see through the flames. I focused on the potential
melodramatic energies & suddenly there was a baby squirming in
its dead mother’s arms. I snatched it & threw it for
the fire to gorge on. The violins continued. I searched out all the
babies, murdered them in increasingly bizarre fashions, wrote
prophecies with their ashes, & went mad from stinging ears. I
searched out all the music, hindered its progress with a pat down, tied
tethers around its wings, & exploded it from inside out.
Hostages generally fuck harder than a bag of flaming
bunnies & when they’re done they dribble out sobbing
promises they’ve been promised will carpet the floor. They
sometimes maneuver away from orgasm. I crease & organize them
into manifolds because I’m exhausted with the drainage.
Waterman is currently entering the fifth dimension. What he thinks
happens, but he has stopped thinking. He has a lamp that looks like big
anal beads. In the summer of 2010 he cleans toilets in Vermont and all
of the food in his apartment in Indiana is rotting due to a selfish
electric company. He runs Wheelchair Party.