from You Must be George
I. George as a resonant frequency
It felt like recognition. The ticking of my veins and the Rhythmic oscillation of day to day suddenly responded to A predetermined signal, flickering so quickly that it felt like a Continuous sensation vibrating paler and paler Until the instrument was absorbed into its own sound. That's why I didn't correctly interpret the data. When the system started to gutter and drift out of phase I didn't think this mechanism had anything to do With the unforced vibrations that had always rung out So mind numbingly. I couldn't identify it for what it was. This new man who is not George, he may only be half a hertz off, He certainly generates a relatively strong response signal, But he doesn't touch intent to cut crystal and dash the air alive.
VIII. Unfairly Distracted
Don’t call my name, George even on a whim. Your ghost is loud enough sounding in semitones that fill my skull and cavities with noise, leave me trembling in the arms of another man who says he loves me poultices my wounds his soft swollen mouth drawing out the cold panic. Mumbling his incantations. And I, half a breath away from dissolving into our skin, hear you working indifferently in some well lit room your keyboard tapping in a calm rhythm.
IX. Receiving End
I'm not so sure about this being a patient in my own ward business. I used to be prized for my analysis, now a most unusual case, X-ray's jittering about in my ovaries. The technician’s screen is turned away until I ask to see the results. She shows me in an indulgent, amused sort of way her hand on mine while my coffee rattles. She is satisfied that I too have been broken down, I am not impervious. She knowingly absorbs things George said and my disbelief. It only goes to prove the trend she’s always wanted to observe. She knows I am the sort of woman who doesn't mind laying herself out for man like that, who doesn’t know, wasn't taught that his life had made him untouchable.
X. The People Outside
God, they’re never going to let go of that A-bomb thing. Even when I don’t say a word they smell the lab-light on me like a lover, smell the bright bleeding through my clothes where each data point has left an entry wound. You were the ones who told us how to do it they say. Well perhaps. But I think my interest lies more in potential fields than foreign cities. One day they will find a spot on my wrist that’s white and bloodless, saying Ha! This is where familiars feed, where she is unfeeling. where he sealed her obedience with his tongue. I will be contemptuous, hold out my arms covered in dribbling pin pricks and say Yeah, you got me.
XI. In defence of my supervisor/myself/physics
I heard the people outside/George say that she is precise to the point of inaccuracy way too intense/her level of concentration is caustic clings viscously/viscously to the bench top burns through the focal point. But he doesn’t understand the dynamics of pleasure edit: the pleasure of dynamics/mechanics/connections the singularity/euphoria just past exhaustion the resonant frequency that rings through her mind and drowns out the white noise/interference of her body.
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