Wrath of the Weak
A man in New York has nothing but fists for fingers. Fists for each finger. For him, guitar playing is just punching, punching.
Behind him is a box and a very large guitar amp. Around his waist is a heavy chain. The chain is attached to a gurney. On the gurney is the box and the very large guitar amp. The wheels are squeaky and there is no grease to fix them.
The man in New York is small and thin. His heart is weak, so he sucks on his fist-fingers to get blood to his arms and hands. So he sucks on his toes to get the blood to his legs and feet. So he grabs a rubber tube and sticks one end to his ear and sticks the other in his mouth to suck the blood into his head.
He could ask someone to suck on his ears, but he won't. He could ask for help pulling his amp, but he won't.
He wants no one to touch nothing. Or anything. He wants someone to touch nothing. Or none of anything. He wants you to touch nothing of his. Yours, yes. Not his. Nothing. Not anything.
It's his.
It's like razors, his shoulder blades. It's like razors.
It's like barbed wire, his eyes. It's like barbed wire.
It's like spoiled milk, his voice. It's like spoiled milk.
And all that's fuck it, fuck all.
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