The Anatomy of Loneliness
I have burped out my tadpole children, flushed them before they’ve sprouted legs, I have spared them eyes and heartbeats fingernails and frowns and personalities split by product of the fractured state of play that has long grown sick.
This is the half-lie by which I justify wanking into the face of a hard fate that all surplus males never outrun or graduate from the mass stampede to a prize that can only be won by one, it seems we are worms always in the mire pullulating under the raised boot of an indecisive God.
Looking down, I wonder what a God would make of me, turning myself inside out like a squid expunging venom, slamming the laptop shut, filling what I’ve hollowed with the familiar flood of shame, a constant bedfellow.
Looking down, through the microscope, as an experimentalist over a petri dish observes what cultures give rise, I wonder what a God would make of ours? The parades in the light of day for equality and against misogyny undermined by men in dark rooms, shaking hands, arthritically, like nervous dice-throwers, course-correcting their bodies with every stroke to interpret images of pain as sources of pleasure, rewiring the plastic brain collective to digest a smorgasbord of every fantasy and proclivity: gagging and choking; punching and fisting; rape and incest, that sex is no longer the expression of love but the exchange of fluid and flesh, no dogs were ever trained better to chase their own tails, those boys who took their education online to discover at what rhythm and thrust does the human machine thrive best, only to learn nothing other than the anatomy of loneliness.
© Josh Lonsdale, 2021
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