Writing Metal Cold

[Mitch]

I'm liked a silenced pistol when he talks to me. I've got a suppressor round my barrel. There's bullets in my chamber waiting to be fired.

Think of the metal pistol lying on the floor, alone, and you get the picture. Imagine the shining metal, a window beside it, the full moon, its light shining off the pistol. And the curtains fluttering. Outside the windows crickets chirp. The sky's a somberly morose black void. The moon's held in the sky by gravity. The moon's full, the craters in it make it look like it's a face. A face I never knew Those curtains, too, they're held tight where they are, like the moon; they're hanging, by tape, since the curtains had broken off from wind. And the pistol's held to the ground by gravity, too. And it's held to the ground but its weight, and by its concealment.

This is a place I live. It's a place of my creation. Of my conception. In my mind.

In my mind, it can all be created better than what's created here. Here, in reality, it's all about reality. Misery. Servility. But in my mind, it's about much more. And it can be whatever I want it to be.

Someone's got to put their hands on my trigger sometime, this gun. When that happens, there'll be the feeling of metal in their hands; cold metal, the feel of my metal reminding them of goosefleshed skin; the feel reminding them of snow, white-walling everything, frothing it all in cold. This gun in their hand will make them shiver. It'll be like it's so cold, their breath is seeable as it's coming out. It'll remind them of what death probably feels like, and how everything's eventual no matter what, for ****'s sake, you do.

Russian Roulette is a fun game, isn't it? I think so. That's what I'd play with them.

Spinning my chamber, I'd be twirling. Ashes ashes, we all fall down, right? Pockets full of posies? I'd spin. There'd be no doubt if I was loaded or not, cause I'm always loaded. Ready to fire.

The pressing of the trigger is the like the pressing of the face to my face, the hand to my hand. The kiss to my kiss, the caress to my caress.

Death is like sex. It's timeless and beautiful, ugly and naughty. Here in my mind it's genderless, it has no face, no meaning, but what it does. Its action. Putting the preconceptions of it all aside, and finding it's whatever it is at the moment. It's not pleasure, satisfaction. It's not release, finding yourself. It's just ******* death; it's just sex. Caressing and lovely, but naughty and ugly all the same.

A gun is a machine. A body is a machine. Our bodies are like guns, our guns are like bodies. Isn't it possible to shoot bullets from the mouth? Bullets that're metal cold tearers of the heart. Metal cold tearers of everything.

I'd shoot him if I could, then I'd shoot myself. And I do. In my mind. It's a mental bullet that's tearing tissue right now. Tissue that doesn't exist, but does. Mind over matter, matter over mind, over matter, over mind. It doesn't matter. It's the same. The bullet which tears is the bullet which rends. Can't feel the pain? Soon it will be felt.

A gun that's got a suppressor on it. That's me. I've got the crafty trigger, the chamber inside to house the bullets, the murdering sentinels. I've got a grip on my handle, an ease of holding, so someone can put me to submission and to work at killing something. I'm a ******* killing machine. I give things life, but I'm a gun. Guns can give lives, but they take them away, too. Guns take em away, cold and breathless, and they never know what hit them.

When someone grabs me, I come to life. In their hands, I'm a Houdini at escape. I slither back and forth. See the gun, and it writhes and moves. Deep inside it's the bullets powering the heart. The bullets thud with life. They're what make me alive. Those death-heads. They're eyes, beady eyes. Metal cold.

The suppressor makes it so when I fire, I can't be heard. It's a marvel of design. One of those "silent but deadly" things. There's nothing more beautiful than silence, let me tell you. When the killing machine can be silent about what it does, that's the best. When you're slowly dying, effaced by it all, and you can't even feel it, that's the best.

Death is a crawling spider on its web. We're all caught in it. Death takes us and wraps us with its fluid. Its web. Like spider-man, death's big and a super hero. As we dangle on his web, covered, almost in a cocoon, we're slowly decayed and turned to mush. Then death, the beautiful thing he is, takes us and sucks out all our inner organs, our entrails. He doesn't eat us whole. The spider doesn't eat us whole. We're left with our flesh, but it slowly goes away with our sad passing. It's such a thing to lament, isn't it?

It slowly, so slowly kills us. That's the way of death. Soon as we're born from the womb, that's when we're wrapped in the web. We lie in there our whole lives. Most don't even see it. They think they're alive, when it's all purposeless. Understanding is purposeless when in the end, the spider kills you. In the end it eats you. Not whole, but eats you. Eats you all the same.

Death is a mechanical enslaver. Think The Matrix, how Neo was in the pods. That's what death's like. Death is life, life is death. We sit in our own pods, connected with our own cords that give us life, to power the machine. The machine is all we sustain, not ourselves. It's all about a machine.

Our bodies themselves are machines. Guns. We can shoot.

Some don't have suppressors. I do. And I don't fire my gun myself, either. I fire it in the most subtle of ways. Ways that're hard to see, and clever. It's the way to cheat death: kill myself so many times before I die that when I die I'm already dead. I can feel it working, too. Working like death, the spider, works on me.

I think the world would be better if I didn't exist. I'm meaningless. I'm just a gun, a gun with bullets in its chamber, ready to implode. To slither on myself, like a snake, and bite myself, inject the venom. Inject it to my veins. I'm already dead as it is. I'm metal cold. Nothing can break me. Nothing can warm me. I'm metal and I'm cold. Metal and ******* cold.

I think what I need to do is go on a voyage to the moon. Von voyage, right? That's right.

The moon's gray as the Earth when you think about it. The Earth's like one big machine, too. It's all like one big machine, sustaining itself with the cooperation of its nanomachines. You know how they say deus ex machina, god comes from the machine? They're right. There's some other, stupid, meaning to the word, but taken literally, it's beautiful. God does come from the machine. God is our bodies. God is the Earth. God is the way everything is. God is a gun. God is a bullet, entering to the head, going into the brain, puncturing in. It's all so vulnerable. So penetrating.

In my mind it's a war. Revolutionary war, with the British on one side, the Americans on the other. I wonder who's gonna win? Don't you? I'm sure you do. Americans win. But not in this war. In this war no one ever wins. In this war there's more than just the British. It's an entire progression of wars. There's World War I, II, there's any war you can think of. Inside my mind it's all battling.

The reds've got their guns, so does the other side. The guns hoisted in the air, berefted. The killing machine.

A fist to the face. Blood running. A barroom fight in my mind. There's a fly buzzing around in there. Fresh blood.

Fresh blood. A shark, in the water, smells it. In the water of my mind. He smells it and it smells good. He comes and jumps out of the water, eating it all, taking it to the ocean with him.

The ocean. Saltwater. A killer whale eats krill, the shark eats the killer whale, the krill are eaten by the killer whale.

Then, the world of my mind. It's changing. The sun turns to a big red giant, expands and sucks the water dry from me. No more water. The shark flops uselessly, suffocates, dies. He couldn't get oxygen from the water.

From his decayed corpse leaps the homo sapiens. They're alive again. Muskets ready. Read to rip a new asshole. Blood, all the blood. The sun's still a red giant. Guns're still firing. I'm still a suppressor, I take in all the noise, but I never pull my own trigger. I don't even have control. They control it all. Not me. They've got control.

The sun's eating their flesh now, as it's becoming a red giant, as it's progressing to its death. It melts them alive, burns their flesh alive. This is in me. This is in me, it's happening. A great fire. The burning. The pain. The great anguish. I can feel it.

The guns fall to the ground as they fall to the ground, the guns're melting to piles of nothing, it's all melting. Being destroyed.

Then the sun's just a white dwarf. The world that I used to know in my mind's gone. I look up from the nothingness to the sky. I'm still a silencer. I'm still a gun. My body's the gun. It's a visceral machine serving its raw purpose. Its purposeless purpose. Survival.

I'm on a new planet now. Never been here. It's blood red here. Rusted. This planet's named from the God of war. God comes from the machine. War is a machine serving the purpose of genocide. Serving the purpose of killing. Maiming. Destroying. It'll all coalesce, all of it. All of it's a machine. I'm a machine that'll deliquesce. I'll decompose to nothing. Nothing that's something, but nothing all the same.

The only winner in the end is death. Death is the winner. How can you even try to win out your machine? Beat the machines? Go beyond the machines? The machines are superhuman and were built for the purpose of keeping us in line, and keeping us in tune to the fact of our fates.

We're just guns. Lying on the ground. The gun's able to be picked up, no doubt there. But the fact is, no one knows how to use the guns. Other than for killing. And fear. There's no other way for them. That's the only way it goes.

I'd like the fighting in my head to stop. I'd like to say every part of me's died. I can't say that though. I never will. The essence of it all is survival. Useless, wasted survival. There's no reason to survive. To die is as good as surviving. Why not just shoot the gun at yourself rather than shoot it in your fear they give you? We're fools. Slaves. We're servile. Ancillary. That's all we are. Ever will be.

I want to see it all end. I wish I could be here for the end. When everything ends. When death finally wins. Because death's going to win one day. What we have here isn't finite, even if the universe in my head's infinite, even if the universe out there's infinite. It's still finite. It still has its ends. Nothing can spiral on forever. When you spiral on, you'll keep going over the same things again, till you're driven insane and destroy it all.

In my head, there's war. There's a coop. There's the systematic killing of six million thoughts, beings. It's all in my head. Nothing's real. It's all a joke. Inane. Funny.

I laugh at it cause it's sad. And I cry with it cause it's hysterical.

Bang. One day it'll all end. Bang, and it'll all end. Big bang, bang of a gun, what's the difference. What's the ******* difference. There isn't anymore. It's all the same to me.

Mars is heaven, but it's mighty lonely. I think one time, I'll just go out and wander in space. A space odyssey maybe. I'll wander around.

I wish you would just die. I wish I would just die.

Well, I'm gonna buy the gun and start the war. Blame it on me.

Blame it on me.