The Fiddleback

fiction by Blake Butler

The electronic black field around the house stuttered when I squatted in the face of the camera and waited for your spine to cream out of me. The country needed a new small silence to replace the erasure of all text from all scrolls where we’d deleted the entire archive of CrystalVideo by walking past it with the same noose we’d use to shank our portrait of Christ II to the Universal Ceiling, your flesh and my flesh. Upon the Earth the tape was flagellating all the ash into a mental pastry like the discography of cosmetic surgeries. I felt so hot as fuck. I wanted to vote for a witch in the election but they were all male and anyway you are my only human friend, which is the wrong kind of behavior. I don’t mind what happens to icon of us now, or who we were in copulation as the house is become open to the weight of He. Up my innards you could already see the markings of that vast mnemonic organ war; the email I’d left open where the protagonist my deleted novel wrote me from an unindexed partition of my hard drive and screamed for me to beat him off again by endlessly pressing Eject so hard it cracked the keyboard. So I was really hungry all day today until the blood exams were canceled, then my iCalendar seemed so white I could no longer bear to click it. My hands are shitting pets all ever since. The electronic black field had traveled in the bowels of so many girls before me I could hardly stand to let it pretend to destroy us in the Hour for the neighbors’ pleasure of the neighbors’ holes in gaspgasm like a boardgame and I wonder how much longer can we hide here before someone else finds the button in the prior world and kills us both. I have no idea but I hope it’s vast and wakes your slaving mind up, as I do love us when you’re ours, like I love this feeling of being reassembled for no purpose and yet still soon again today.

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Blake Butler