NITTY GRITTY
︎︎︎ Rory Sinacola
︎ FEB 1, 2022
Imagine this giant brain manifests itself:
inside, intricate cylindrical archives
imitate digital chips,
circuits laid with logistical wizardry.
Within, ideal intelligence:
history, libraries, lists,
artifacts, files,
arithmetic, science
with tidy signage.
Fitting, efficient, fine.
If emotion is input,
it clicks into action
emitting tinny chitters,
gilded spindles whirr,
hissing pistons spin.
Initially, it’s nice.
It quips in pithy criticisms,
invents insightful witticisms,
philosophizing with itself.
Civility quickly disintegrates;
this flibbertigibbet spits riddles,
slips into irrational quibbling
insipid bitching;
it is titillated with trivial drivel
until visibly ribald.
Its internal friction intensifies,
insulting itself in whispers.
Unluckily, it listens.
Instantly it glitches:
its visage splits in rictus grin,
sickly little grimace
mimicking affliction.
This pitiful, blithering idiot’s
blistered lips dribble spittle,
gibbering while saliva trickles,
dripping until it betrims
its quivering chin;
mind still thinking.
In its final minutes,
it hallucinates infiltrators:
skittering spiders,
eight limbs akimbo;
itchy pin pricks tickling
like tiny fingers
while sinister silver insects slither,
lithely squirm, infesting;
display their shining smiles,
sink their stingers into skin.
In this vision,
toxic elixirs lick its fissured kisser,
which messily dissects itself:
schismed, slivered, slit,
it splinters into bits,
while inside, intestines writhe:
tissues twisting, pinkly kinky,
shrinking into winking sphincters;
its unzipped innards wither, shriveled,
sinew dried like wrinkled rinds.
This ultimate illusion is mirrored
in its dilated optic instrument.
Its lifeless iris flickers;
blind, still blinking.
inside, intricate cylindrical archives
imitate digital chips,
circuits laid with logistical wizardry.
Within, ideal intelligence:
history, libraries, lists,
artifacts, files,
arithmetic, science
with tidy signage.
Fitting, efficient, fine.
If emotion is input,
it clicks into action
emitting tinny chitters,
gilded spindles whirr,
hissing pistons spin.
Initially, it’s nice.
It quips in pithy criticisms,
invents insightful witticisms,
philosophizing with itself.
Civility quickly disintegrates;
this flibbertigibbet spits riddles,
slips into irrational quibbling
insipid bitching;
it is titillated with trivial drivel
until visibly ribald.
Its internal friction intensifies,
insulting itself in whispers.
Unluckily, it listens.
Instantly it glitches:
its visage splits in rictus grin,
sickly little grimace
mimicking affliction.
This pitiful, blithering idiot’s
blistered lips dribble spittle,
gibbering while saliva trickles,
dripping until it betrims
its quivering chin;
mind still thinking.
In its final minutes,
it hallucinates infiltrators:
skittering spiders,
eight limbs akimbo;
itchy pin pricks tickling
like tiny fingers
while sinister silver insects slither,
lithely squirm, infesting;
display their shining smiles,
sink their stingers into skin.
In this vision,
toxic elixirs lick its fissured kisser,
which messily dissects itself:
schismed, slivered, slit,
it splinters into bits,
while inside, intestines writhe:
tissues twisting, pinkly kinky,
shrinking into winking sphincters;
its unzipped innards wither, shriveled,
sinew dried like wrinkled rinds.
This ultimate illusion is mirrored
in its dilated optic instrument.
Its lifeless iris flickers;
blind, still blinking.
Rory Sinacola lives in the Northwest of America, where trees and rain keep her close to the ground. The two biggest questions on her mind are how to express love so that others accept it and if there is a singular consciousness. She believes trauma is a key that unlocks a path to revelation through great pain, and that we can learn much from the wounded.
Also by Rory: LOWERCASE D