föstudagur, maí 25, 2007


Twisting my finger around after a grip, but it is slick and taut against the little crossbars. They are three times their proper size, wound thick with hair and whatever else is in the drain. Scrabbling, picking. Get an Exacto knife and hack at it a little. Wonder whether parts of it are dropping away into the depths only to find root and sprout elsewhere.

Grab a little fatty tuft of it and pull. Stink of swamp, of used skin, of castings. Parts of the body sloughed off and washed away but not down. They cling, mindless zoophytes, slaves to some weird tropism.

Pull more. Feeling roots break, a black, tapering, swaying mass of it comes free:

Homunculus! Mandrake!

Be gone from my house!

2 ummæli:

tristan sagði...

and did it shriek ?

sterna sagði...

Yes. I flushed it anyway.

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