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Psychonautic Metaphorphosis with Franz
Petra Whiteley


I am a psychonaut. Today I had lunch in Franz Kafka’s head. After that meatless meal, which we ate with our fingers without noticing the mouthfuls, we felt giddy like children hanging from the ceiling -- dangling lamps above the womb and semen.

[Truth be told, we only breathe words and nothing else. We only eat for the guilt in the food injected by the sanctity of matrimonial full stops because we have to live somehow; we ingest it by canvass of hurt nailed within. So we can preserve what little sense of self we have, we give them our middle finger, unified and synchronised, as they measure us again and again as worthless wasted wraiths. If we appease them, whoever you are that reads this, please know, it is only so we are left alone with the black blood of language disregarding the laughing corpse of Freud under our feet, he cannot explain us - give up that conception! And so we spit as one on that also. But that is Now. I am quite sure that you want to watch the rest of the psychonautic rendevouz unfold. Push me out of your way already. So...]

We stood in front of the window, naked; winter stared at us with mouth agape.

The churches of Prague were screaming again, pouring out the office hours with the injuries. Those workers were pickled bees in amber. We memorised their grievances as we had to wait whilst our flesh was stretching and swelling on metal contraptions, those expectation in mute lines of faces, the press of the shoes upon the floor. We watched them metaphorphose in silence as we knew in advance how patient they will be and how quietly they will watch us drowning, they shall even be so kind as to hold our heads under the water. [surely you will recognise that as a sign of human race's progress]

"That strange beat will always pump God in criterions of salt and we'll watch that grow colossal always", I told him right then.

"His grunts penetrate walls every single night!', Franz whispered to me as I squeezed his hand desperately in that ennui freezing us to that same fucking spot, yet again. As I felt his cold hand return my frantic shaking, tenderness arose from Vltava like mist and suffocated me with her pungent judgement. I told him 'Let's kill the fucker right now, meine lieber.'

Franz said nothing, only bent down upon the nearly black desk and passed me a note as a keepsake. Then he insisted on exercising, still naked, in that crispy cold that you can smell only in the cobbled city of tamed towers and mundane blissed haven.

At that moment I only had to look at him to see how superbly we can abnegate together with such explosive oneness. Only he and I can ever know the invigorating taste of dreamed up self-pain orgasming inside the flesh. I examined his fragile face with my lips, the darkness of his on the tip of my tongue tasted innervating. At the end, we still held our hands tightly, I knew that we both wished we could run as far away as we can, at that point he gave me one more shy look.

I knew he wrote with that look upon his face whilst the family threw the din of the bruising noises on top of him, evoking the highest consummation and death there could ever be known to a man. I knew then that I would love him forever.

It truly was time to go. Psychonauts must sleep, but before such an act could be done, I unfold the note he gave me.

“Don’t worry, the machine will stamp it in fifty five seconds. “







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