Stories

Anatomie – Adedapo Adeniyi

This film has no title cards, it just goes on until the credits roll. I wish I could speak French, raised in the admiration of the elegance of it, my mother found my younger brothers in a gutter, I just spat out chunks of phlegm.

I have not slept in five nights, drift as the sun rises, today I walked out of myself to observe, in my dreams I am a phantom, in my everything is changing, everything is changing. The Mandela effect has changed my O into a Q, where’d the extra line come from? no sorry I don’t take coke, but have fun with it, I’ll have a Sprite, or strawberry yogurt, yes she can projectile vomit all over me, you want her to piss in your mouth? can I watch? can I film it?

I sit down and take notes with my camera, two people, sex is become the room, bodies are elastic, images bleed into themselves, two were fucking themselves, now it becomes one body fucking the room, two selves, is there a difference between your simultaneous?
        I am inside the dance, my head owl-esque, I melt, they moan with my mouth, my eyes darken, we fatigue not, hours wilt and fall to death like onion peels, blue teeth growing in its place, with jaws that clench and grip onto skin in pleasure.

Yes she can projectile vomit all over me, regurgitate her sex, over the course of a quarter century, what we over here call two clouds in conversation, my body drenched in the filth of her bowels, estrogen operating system all that is left, techno tran, the world ended four years ago when you couldn’t leave your houses, were we all inside when the sun fell to the earth and made us the ocean? she is she no more no more, give thanks or whatever. Yes he can projectile vomit all over me, she already did so it will make a difference, I can’t touch you the way you want me to, I’m too busy making videos with my notebook.

Sometimes conversations androgynous and inconclusive come up, I lend my ears to soil, the world is queer and psychotic, he said he’d only smoke that shit once but now he’s in his room every evening dying to live, is that what she was? we converse in theys and days do not pass. I became my own sleep paralysis demon so you could sleep better, the idea of the artist has confused all of us, the penis is the vagina and the absence of both is absolute, the presence of both is god and if you kill yourself just as the sun sets, you become an angel, or a hyperpop song, but nobody knows the difference anyways.

The phone has become cosmetic surgery, yes they can projectile vomit all over themselves, mirrors portals to bright screen radioactivity, there are spider eggs in my hair and last night I was at the corner of my ceiling watching gender dissolve until I woke up in sweat, before that I watched a boy kill his father and then himself and I woke up screaming, before that I watched myself watch myself and I woke up numb, that was the last time, that morning I took the only picture from when I was a baby and drowned him. My parents found me in a gutter too, the world has always been filth, the flower preaches optimism and I wonder, does she kiss girls in her dreams too?

Take off your shirt and run around a little, I want to watch your skin steam and exercise self-control while you become less of what you were and more of what you’re becoming, that’ll never happen, you’ve rejected too much, swallow all that vomit, lick yourself clean and see that you have no reflection.

We built our home, it took us an eternity and we called it confusion, we stepped inside it and made our pronouns into an altar, progressive architecture for worship and dissection, sexless restless, the world is queer and celibate, the only one doing any fucking around here is me and I only want to fuck myself, I did it once, there were two of us and I can’t remember asking to be loved by anyone other than my child.

We are evolving into something hallowed, we are evoking the gods of pasts that are yet to come to pass, we are saying again that form should die, our friends call us a broken record, we obsess and return home to fellate our computer until it ejaculates understanding all over us. Does nothing compel you as strongly as vanity? We have become rot and the illusion of illusion has poisoned us and there is no cure, if you say to an unbeliever, pray, he will ask you to curse and I use too many profanities already, I’m sorry, we use, I haven’t gotten used to this yet. 

You can visit my sanctuary where artificial intelligence is true and if you look too closely at it and call my name, I’ll answer you, these extra fingers were never a mistake, I just want you to hold me even tighter, those faces expressionless and faux and eyes void is only how we see everything and if you let us projectile vomit all over you, you’ll see just like that too.