Cake explodes with a messy halo!
Posted on September 11, 2026.
Cake explodes with a messy halo!
Open your eyes to Saturday morning, when the orange sky longed for the lonely Sun. Wake up in the morning for another day, for another breakfast to devour a creamy, chocolate cake. Zig-zag, zig-zag at the ends of the curtains, peek at my eyes with sun rays, shoot them right into my virus irises. I woke up. I got up. Push me down on the floor, on the rug, brush and rub, drive me around the car, crash into the next corner, and laugh with me until I smile out of joy. Poke fun at police officers, they lighten you up. They send you to the sky with a rifle, then you fall on the ground, roll over and hit your head on a motorcycle. Drum, drum. A cacophony cake, strawberry milkshake, a pastor phoned me last night.
Walk across the bedroom and take the path to the kitchen, shiny floor, slip over. Forget to brush your teeth, forget it now, tomorrow or never, whatever. Who the hell likes water? A tile, a lonely tile, shouted at my ears, "I'm sorry." I know, dear tile, come with me. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I'm sorry, dear tile. Come with me. Into the kitchen, right there, on the table, we host a pasta-party cake. With you, together. We must not mistake. Five, four fingers, glued, next step? Next step? Yes, almost. Next step? Yes, almost, will, we will. So, so bamboozle. Fires in my mind, is this hell? A bomb is ticking: one two three. Card denied, an ATM machine on my spine. Lick the floor; the flavor, come here. No? It appears no.
I sensed that something hurt my feet. A cosmic weariness flooded down my eyes. I could not move right there, to the table. Red bones on the floor cry around, scrounging for a messy soldier. It would hurt my precious lungs to scream. No one else is in the house. Father? No, not anymore. My father and I hung around until I ended up being older than him. I'm sorry, dear father. You're endless, you know. He was a mouse later, transformed effortlessly but also eaten by a cat with the same lack of effort. I chose the words like my father would, "One, one! Hulk's green garden invaded the kitchen. Cynic, walk me like a cynic. Over there, mom!" Hadn't the Sun risen to the top? Oh, how beautiful, cover the sky like a blanket, protect it from the dangers of outer space. Bigger than anyone, wasn't the Sun? A big bow from my hand, then. So sneaky that it shot rays of light to irritate my vision, and it did this with additional effort right now. Was I going to starve today? So enormous yet careless, what an insufferable space, an insufferable orbit. I will go there and kick you, break your orbit, so you spin around the space and crash into the Earth. What was it like to starve anyway?
I was more helpless than bees who had just lost their hive, since I had literally no one but a dead mouse on my feet. A cosmic weariness flooded down not just the eyes of mine but also of the Sun; the former, being an experience of mine, I think, mattered more. Back to dark blue, the sky changed its hue. Bye-bye, Sun, betray me like you did the sky. Leave us behind, let us drown, sprinkle your absence on top. Leave my windows, turn your light off, evaporate in your own heat. I had been tolerating you since the day I was born. What do you want from me now? What is this if not a dramatic show? I wish it were; it would, at least, be paradoxically enjoyable and artistic, but it is none of those. Do you want my eyes? Do you want them, so you can see, too? I understand your spirit; when you shine too bright, you risk being blinded by your own light. How about the Moon, though? Aphotic and blue. Don't you wish you were like the Moon? Flicker into my eyes, just to push me to another day. First, establish a mandatory dependency; second, leave right away, so we suffer.
Despite how unreliable the Sun is, and how arrogantly twisted he is, my only potion remains to scream as loud as I can for him to hear me, so I could finally make love with my creamy chocolate cake, reach the castle of destination. Whatever cracks my voice, whatever kills my lungs. I might as well choke and quench my thirst on the way. Land on my face, the Moon, leave a kiss. Glossy pieces, snow-like. Pierced my tongue. My ribs fell over like a row of dominoes set on stairs, tick by tick. Melted off my nose, a starry milkshake. Floor tasteless. Father, father. Rose, the flower, on my head. Smells red down my iris. Pick me up, blue. Clogging honey pores. Sprouted from my veins, a tree and a willow, oh, a garden and a hydrangea.