Fin SorrÊ l
Ê l ë æ ñ ø reanӫr’s Ghost / The Liver
Fin Sorrel is the author of TRANSVERSAL (Pski's Porch, 2020) and Caramel Floods (Pski's Porch, 2017) The teacup of Infinity (Mannequin haus, 2018) & Sand Library (alien buddha press, 2018) His work has appeared online and in print from: Squawk Back, OCCULUM, Gammm, Gobbet, Tentacular magazine (as Ocean Vash) , URSUS AMERICANUS, SLEEPING FISH XII (as Zachary Scott Hamilton) Ctrl+ v Half Mystic 3: Nocturne Talking about Strawberries all of the time, the stray branch, Fur lined ghettos #9 and Burning House Press
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/finsorrel/
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/ZEE.ES.EH/
1.+!! There is a formulation, mylar Cruise control. A mouse in my hÊ l met, we sway through rhythmic sequins on the chest pocket on the shirt, where from the corner of dark blue, she is dancing up a blur. Then, we have fallen, really woven back into the tunnÊ l, caught by the snags of thread of a shuttle, of a craft. Our lanterns are in an endless pathway of refracting light. A colliding mirror reflects. The number of us in the tunnÊ l goes from 10 (in the shuttle) into 20 of us each day (on a conveyor belt) 24 hours a day.
Shuffled away from the hobbling imbecile… Behind us, in front of us, more replicas come.
My silk radio plays in my pocket some song that was popular in ‘75, I dance my way through the first 24 hours in 4 minutes.
2.(.•) Ê l ë æ ñ ø r’s liver system creeps into its Ê l ëventh stage, eating the TV.
It (THE LIVER) jumps off of a foreign table and into the pile of cheese sandwiches, eating the eyes of it quickly. The sandwiches [s***] out commercials of interference in the Twilight zone episodes one after the other. The toilet flushes eels down, and swirls away the mis-led paint by number colors of the room— down through the underground of the old world. Our hours pass into the United bÊ l ë æ ñ ø rly third (a three pronged food trap, before it dips to the lower levÊ l of fish skulls in lake underworld, passing us through all ancient dynasty of the raccoon.
The boats interlock in fish bones, and start on a parade of weary and dead nights… They sway and trip, falling off of the side of our conveyor, floating into the water, where they are quickly devoured by snakes and piranhas.
2.1 (∆∆) Wīçhïtå sits smoking on the dock in an orange sunset shaped circumference. Old lace covers her dress, revealing the copper ankle bracÊ l ë ts, (10 or 20 of them are stacked on top of each other.) Her black hair spins smoke.
2 [ ♱ ] The floating heads in the eel water smÊ l l awful. The 10 of us stand on the edge of the darkness, the 20 of us watch the 10 of us flush deeper into the old world; spinning before me is a purple umbrÊlla. When my head is turned mechanically from left to center, it breaks off right. I see Ê l ë æ ñ ør’s ghøst is wearing purple rubber gloves, holding my head. I see all 20 others stacked around me like trinkets at random on the bookshelf, in the water, in the attic, in the factory. An old man is painted like a porcelain doll, formed in a position, he is hunched over spinning umbrÊllas in front of a boat. His face is drooping, everyone's bottom lips are slow, hanging open, they are made from (soft wet) clay, sculpted into the floor. The floor is passing below, an inch of water carries boats through
~ The clay is coming away where the faces droop too low, no longer shaped into chins. The old porcelain man has a head of hair that moves into eÊl-snakes. I turn away and dream Êlsewhere.
The wall of water is touching my fingers. I pass my hands into the warm room on the other side of my father's bed, where Ê l ë æ ñ ø reanӫr’s's ghost is making love to me. I lower my head into the triangles ∆∆ dipping my neck through the waterfall and peek into the back porch of our flooded old house, where my boat is tied to the dock. This place is a memory and I still haven't explored it. I began to see stars aboard a space station circling and cluster of line vertical and horizontals the bed is floating through outer space and Ê l ë æ ñ ør’s Ghost is holding my body close to hers. We are ghosts together. Cold and heat, the stars are temperature gauges, are stars I've whispered before.
“The lake is calling me into it.” Ê l ë æ ñ ø r’s Ghost whispers into my ear.
“I hope you come to the new moon with me. I have been called there 2 years in a row.” I whisper, kissing her ear.
“We will go there together.” She says. Evaporates.
The four of us (ME, MYSELF, I + YOU) wake to lanterns I come together into (out of multiple pieces of the floor puzzle,) driving through desert now Ê l ë æ ñ ø r’s Ghost behind me, Wīçhïtå sitting next to her. It is night. Their lanterns are bright flames.
The rain on the window is calm. I hear the soft radio play and watch cactus blur shifting lines of information across the rear view. The girls look through their painted smiles, their smiles that are seen crawling up into their eyes and across their foreheads.
All of the hidden animals inside of them are heard wrestling it out. Their bellies rumble, bulging.
Behind, there are plates where their eyes are curdled in puddles of rain; they swish as I drive. Tears blinking onto the ground, getting on the seats.
I drive through the mist, thumb tacks scraping against the Deville. We’re crossing great distances, aimless mountains and rivers, into voids, an oasis, and herds. The wild cattle-serpentines and scorpion-falcons thrash and slither up to us, hissing before dying back into the fog. Old, broken fences and closed down old gas pumps blur in the window. Places covered in ghosts who walk passed in bedsheets, going on forever. The shuttle just slides along the bÊlly of the dragon, rubbing its scales against the coral reef and Sandy pebbles.
The three of us unfold back down into the sculpted bed and she smokes my hand away.
“Stop it, you're getting the cigarette wet with my hand silly.” I pull back into the bedroom of My Father again.
She moves her hips steadily and I make her body still so that she can adjust me however. The waves from the barge come splashing against our docks and the room floats up into orgasm.
The liver goes on forever.
Shuffled away from the hobbling imbecile… Behind us, in front of us, more replicas come.
My silk radio plays in my pocket some song that was popular in ‘75, I dance my way through the first 24 hours in 4 minutes.
2.(.•) Ê l ë æ ñ ø r’s liver system creeps into its Ê l ëventh stage, eating the TV.
It (THE LIVER) jumps off of a foreign table and into the pile of cheese sandwiches, eating the eyes of it quickly. The sandwiches [s***] out commercials of interference in the Twilight zone episodes one after the other. The toilet flushes eels down, and swirls away the mis-led paint by number colors of the room— down through the underground of the old world. Our hours pass into the United bÊ l ë æ ñ ø rly third (a three pronged food trap, before it dips to the lower levÊ l of fish skulls in lake underworld, passing us through all ancient dynasty of the raccoon.
The boats interlock in fish bones, and start on a parade of weary and dead nights… They sway and trip, falling off of the side of our conveyor, floating into the water, where they are quickly devoured by snakes and piranhas.
2.1 (∆∆) Wīçhïtå sits smoking on the dock in an orange sunset shaped circumference. Old lace covers her dress, revealing the copper ankle bracÊ l ë ts, (10 or 20 of them are stacked on top of each other.) Her black hair spins smoke.
2 [ ♱ ] The floating heads in the eel water smÊ l l awful. The 10 of us stand on the edge of the darkness, the 20 of us watch the 10 of us flush deeper into the old world; spinning before me is a purple umbrÊlla. When my head is turned mechanically from left to center, it breaks off right. I see Ê l ë æ ñ ør’s ghøst is wearing purple rubber gloves, holding my head. I see all 20 others stacked around me like trinkets at random on the bookshelf, in the water, in the attic, in the factory. An old man is painted like a porcelain doll, formed in a position, he is hunched over spinning umbrÊllas in front of a boat. His face is drooping, everyone's bottom lips are slow, hanging open, they are made from (soft wet) clay, sculpted into the floor. The floor is passing below, an inch of water carries boats through
~ The clay is coming away where the faces droop too low, no longer shaped into chins. The old porcelain man has a head of hair that moves into eÊl-snakes. I turn away and dream Êlsewhere.
The wall of water is touching my fingers. I pass my hands into the warm room on the other side of my father's bed, where Ê l ë æ ñ ø reanӫr’s's ghost is making love to me. I lower my head into the triangles ∆∆ dipping my neck through the waterfall and peek into the back porch of our flooded old house, where my boat is tied to the dock. This place is a memory and I still haven't explored it. I began to see stars aboard a space station circling and cluster of line vertical and horizontals the bed is floating through outer space and Ê l ë æ ñ ør’s Ghost is holding my body close to hers. We are ghosts together. Cold and heat, the stars are temperature gauges, are stars I've whispered before.
“The lake is calling me into it.” Ê l ë æ ñ ø r’s Ghost whispers into my ear.
“I hope you come to the new moon with me. I have been called there 2 years in a row.” I whisper, kissing her ear.
“We will go there together.” She says. Evaporates.
The four of us (ME, MYSELF, I + YOU) wake to lanterns I come together into (out of multiple pieces of the floor puzzle,) driving through desert now Ê l ë æ ñ ø r’s Ghost behind me, Wīçhïtå sitting next to her. It is night. Their lanterns are bright flames.
The rain on the window is calm. I hear the soft radio play and watch cactus blur shifting lines of information across the rear view. The girls look through their painted smiles, their smiles that are seen crawling up into their eyes and across their foreheads.
All of the hidden animals inside of them are heard wrestling it out. Their bellies rumble, bulging.
Behind, there are plates where their eyes are curdled in puddles of rain; they swish as I drive. Tears blinking onto the ground, getting on the seats.
I drive through the mist, thumb tacks scraping against the Deville. We’re crossing great distances, aimless mountains and rivers, into voids, an oasis, and herds. The wild cattle-serpentines and scorpion-falcons thrash and slither up to us, hissing before dying back into the fog. Old, broken fences and closed down old gas pumps blur in the window. Places covered in ghosts who walk passed in bedsheets, going on forever. The shuttle just slides along the bÊlly of the dragon, rubbing its scales against the coral reef and Sandy pebbles.
The three of us unfold back down into the sculpted bed and she smokes my hand away.
“Stop it, you're getting the cigarette wet with my hand silly.” I pull back into the bedroom of My Father again.
She moves her hips steadily and I make her body still so that she can adjust me however. The waves from the barge come splashing against our docks and the room floats up into orgasm.
The liver goes on forever.
Fin Sorrel is the author of TRANSVERSAL (Pski's Porch, 2020) and Caramel Floods (Pski's Porch, 2017) The teacup of Infinity (Mannequin haus, 2018) & Sand Library (alien buddha press, 2018) His work has appeared online and in print from: Squawk Back, OCCULUM, Gammm, Gobbet, Tentacular magazine (as Ocean Vash) , URSUS AMERICANUS, SLEEPING FISH XII (as Zachary Scott Hamilton) Ctrl+ v Half Mystic 3: Nocturne Talking about Strawberries all of the time, the stray branch, Fur lined ghettos #9 and Burning House Press
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/finsorrel/
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/ZEE.ES.EH/
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