Laughter was the father of the world. In round wide clods of birdshit bunched up and popped in big afterbirth and shattered. The splintering shaft of one sound held the black between the planets all together and waited to be beaten back apart now. The cells of future athletes were already screaming “I love you” in rape fantasies along whole shafts air that would not allow a dream to come true there ever. The clouds were busy being men. They corroded the space to fit room for when the eggs hatched and the bodies began fucking. Once the world began the laughter ceased. It was written in the backbones and corneas of whoever but held no actual evidence made real, as when in human ages when one seemed laughing one was being filled up on the inside, slow cancers enjoying their music. In the night, white men with lobes the size of cars would drive through fields in search of tunnels made of light, hitting only walls over and over. Every pixel went deep as any eternity and then some. The oceanic concrete believed in us even after we were over and this sentence was just another form of lard, which doesn’t mean you won’t remember life in death, as much as you’d rather not.
Blake Butler is the founding editor of HTMLGiant and is the author of five books, including the forthcoming novel 300,000 from Harper Perennial in 2014. He lives in Atlanta.
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