These Things Are Innocent

Inanimate Smut Column

Eddy Cruise,

4,000 erotic pounds rest on the grimy surface of a manhole cover.

The car purrs -

Six metallic faces, covered in nothing yet, are awaiting their filth bath.

An IV bag, stuck in a moment, is contorted into a natural U-shape, awaiting its fluid explosion.

One street light shines its idle light downward, away from an unstarry night. The wind cries “if only you had skin so I wouldn’t chafe.”

An orange and a leather belt rest on a table, uncouth and potentially lifeless.

They are tied by an invisible fiber; incredibly thin, incredibly frail. But then there is a man. Alone in a freezer, his eyes have become dry and his gaze empty. The cold wouldn’t be so biting if it weren’t for the fact that he was able to see his tormentors, his very own creations. To think that mere weeks ago they were unmoving, unfeeling blobs of miscellaneous matter made the muscles around his eyes unnecessarily tense.

The glass door separating the two parties may as well be cockleshells. The objects, once of a different desire, felt the ephemeral fiber between them start to pull towards the glass door of the freezer. Inertia was no match for the fiber, as the family of unrelated objects hurtled towards the man, smashing into the door violently.

The man jolts at the thud, then his body calms back into a shiver while his mind stays frozen in shock. Whatever invisible string that had held the things together was now gone. The man hurried to the glass door and pressed the tips of his face and his hands to it. He let out a grave sigh, and as it fogged the pane, his pupils inverted and he sunk to the floor. Trapped in the cold, exiled from his creations in space and life, there is no longer a need for his mind to bring anything into being: inanimate smut was no more.

As the man lay on the icy floor, a faint jingle diffuses through the glass into the cold open air of the freezer. To his surprise, there was nothing in the frame of the glass door. In fact, the room was empty, save for a message written in a sanguine liquid; “LET US BONE BIG BROTHER”. What was left of the room makes the man question whether or not it was the product of mistake or omission.

I can report to you, dear reader, that I eventually made it out of the room, far too late to have any involvement in the coming liberation. I am an innocent man. My account proves this, and you can visit the place yourselves. If you think I’m a fool for what I’ve started, I don’t blame you. But I ask you to consider the dastardly compelling idiom, “suck it and see”, in the context of my body of work. How could I have stopped myself? Is it so immoral to desire to give unfeeling things wants? What do you before you go to bed?

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