Pixus
A vignette of my life.
By MissBrownMM
Pixus Ridicula
Get into it.
Little Miss hiss, she spit the fluid.
Get into it.
Pixi nexus, intuitive.
Get into it.
She spew spoo, the baby goo.
Get into it.
Gotta get the right ride into it.
Get into it.
Hypnosis and lies, she sent you to it.
Do it, do it.
Get into it to do it.
She like it livid, she living in it.
The living she made on it, she sucking out all the sieves.
Get into it.
Meltin' to fluid
she spent into it like, she do it like...
An Evening at Movie City
I enjoyed a glaze on the orange lake while I cast stones at the river bank. The smoothness of each stone felt angelic in my hand. They flutter across the water surface, leaving a trail of ripples that melted into the reflection of the sky. I could see tufts of white mirages in the mirror of water before me. Effervescent. Complacent, maybe.
I sat down, not caring what kind of souvenir the wet grass would leave on my behind. Peace. I savored it like the last drops of lemonade. I drank up the evening sky stained gold by a descending sun. I could lie on the horizon and make it my bed if I wanted to. But I was too antsy. I was always antsy. A flock of priorities buffeted in the bird cage of my head. They screech into my noggin about my boonies, the widows of my dead siblings, the legacy my dead siblings left behind for me. I thought of Chromatina. I thought of myself eclipsed with the burning sun.
An ant ran up my leg. I took it as my sign to go. I swat it off and trekked up the slope of the river bank. The river whispered a sad farewell. I could not feed him another stone.
Evisceration: Saturn Eats Her Son
Ribbons of entrails tangled on the dirt path as she gnawed deep into his abdomen. She sacrificed her knees to claw out hand-fulls of pure carnage. Pieces rang with redness in her paws as she stuffed them down her throat. Chirping in ecstatic Booniese. I could make out some words but no sentences. The glazed eyes of the boy hung open in my directions. A chubby hand still wrapped around a churro. A white and yellow striped shirt torn at the bottom. His lower half hanging by what remained of his spine.
Puddles of his insides trailed behind Pixi. It appeared to me that he was dragged by his stomach. Every violent swing of his body ignited his light-up sneakers. Pixi gorged. Eviscerated like a lobster. Flung about like a rag doll amidst the feast. His arms and legs flew, too fresh for rigor mortis. I could have sworn he waved to me as she flipped him over with her jaw clenched around his neck. Scarlet streamers dressed the ground and pooled towards me. Inch by inch. I could feel it rush into skull.
Immigration
Ever since I was returned here from Chromatina, I learned about the horrors Pixi's army had committed in my country. Niji, my village, was ravaged by her soldiers and violated by warfare. Boonies grasped the breasts of our crops and tore them loose. They entered us and implanted themselves on our walls, forcing a pregnancy, an extension of Pixi's empire. If they didn't join her, as sperm with egg, they would desiccate. My parents told me about what they did to villages who resisted. Bodies poisoned our river water. Women, robbed of their gender. Women, forced to stop the beating hearts of children right before their eyes. Women, withstood the stabbings of soldiers. Women, laid out like fish on beds. Women, their very essence bottled and guzzled up, down the throats of Pixi's soldiers. Women, the seed of the family, eaten alive.
The boonie soldiers toyed with my people in playtime. They took off the dolls' clothes. They made the dolls lie on top of each other. They took off the dolls' limbs and recombined them. The dolls were spared if the boonies got to take them home, where they would have a new name written on them and a new doll house to live in.
Pixistan. My family was forced into the womb of Pixi Star and impaled by her umbilical cord. We had no choice but to be fed by her paternalistic placenta. The claustrophobia of the amnion came from its stability. We were at peace within her. A sick kind of peace that was like a plastic bag riding on a smoke alarm. What is peace without agency? What is agency without peace? My family chose to answer one of those questions. That's why we live in East Pixistan with hooks in our spines.
Ecology
I was transfixed for too long. Behind strings of pink hair, her eyes glowed a là pearls growing within oysters. She rose from all fours. Pixi Star wore a crimson cascade down from her hanging jaw, cloaking her ventral side, running down her legs like puberty. Her eyes got a hold of mine. I tried shifting my gaze, but her head followed the angle of my sight. I seemed to be puppeteering her movements. My cruel reflection started tensing up, ready to break through the glass. One staggered step. Another. Her tongue flicked at a bloodstain on her upper lip. Her claws yelled a dark red at me, fingers dyed and pointed at me. I took one step back which pulled her a step forward. It was a pas de deux off the stage,
She sang a sickening vibrato that tasted like iron and made my throat go dry. Pixi's eyes opened in synchrony with her gaping mouth. A string of saliva stretching from incisor to canine.
Pixus Tigre
Residual mentality distorting my reality
Face to face, a fiasco, reddened by my mortality
Gradually I sink into the futility of her eyes
Striped, side by side, iron bars assigned.
My loved ones, the prey, beating between her teeth.
Recede past the lips, their lives are sweet.
They were roasted to perfection by an army, a fleet.
Digested and emitted like baby bird feed.
I guess I was destined to follow my siblings.
A fight turned to flight through a hole in the ceiling.
My muscles flicker, my head snaps and--
Paleontology
I never got to meet my siblings.
They lived in a world away from mine with other moviestars. They joined Pixi's Youth League and took up specialties, though one of them dropped out and became a maid. But that didn't make her any less. They were all iconoclastic beauties.
My siblings did amazing things. They ran underground newspapers and made art that moved people. I could still hear the rhythm of their heartbeats in their poems. I poured through countless art books that called for class unity. The posters that dissented Pixi Star. The movies they made where their dances painted stories of resistance in shadows.
Their struggles gave me hope. I saw what they had to overcame and made it a mission to pick up where they left off. I picked up their old slingshots and shot my stones at their old friend.
Their widows also filled me in on who they were. Their hearts illustrated the music they walked to when they lead their lives. They each walked with a unique gait. They styled their hair into waterfalls of box-braids and penned their edges like cursive. They each had a signature color. They had names that filled the room they entered and matched the sizes of their personalities.
My siblings are elegant fossils now. I can learn a lot from the vessels they left for me.
Bravado
Each swing collapsed her head like a paper cup. Her shuttered breaths slowed with each contact of bat against flesh. I managed to fold her jaw and some teeth rolled out. What looked like her eyes had purpled and swelled into mushrooms. Pixi's complexion crumpled beneath the metal of my bat.
I jumped on her. I could hear her start to gargle now. I had hit her enough times now that she had begun seizing beneath my boots. I stopped. I didn't want it to be quick. I wanted it to be worth my time. I wanted to see ripples of red ring around her mouth just like the stones I gave to the river.
The body of the boy was now at rest while Pixi writhed. She looked like him now. Eyes goggling at me incomprehensibly, not even able to process anger. A primal malfunction. Her arms and legs curled and twitched. This was her finale.
I gave her a standing ovation. How brave of her to perform her last breaths for me. Such sophisticated dramaturgy. The percussion of her castanet teeth and frying vocal cords in diminuendo. The chord progression of her moans ending nicely, V to I.
Bravo, Pixi. Bravo. But this was just one of the characters you get to play. Maybe next time I'll see you again in an alleyway making love to a boonie. Or perhaps you'll be in the outhouses indulging in coprophagia. I wonder what fetish you'd like to exhibit.
This was just one of her infinite bodies. I know it was an impossible task to kill them all. I'll fail at it just like how all my siblings did. If I have children, they'll keep failing too. It'll be an heirloom pretty soon.
But when people see a hamster running in its wheel, they typically imagine the hamster as happy, don't they? It's getting some nice exercise, blowing off some steam. In that sense, I could be like a hamster too. I might not be going anywhere. But at least I'm moving.
La Mujer Rosada
La sigo desvelado
Me derrite en las manos
Se come el mundo
Mis fines rechazados
Aún sigue mi historia
Mas allá de mi vida
Se bebe mi sangría
Su mirada divertida.
Credited to MissBrownMM
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