elephant's Øth symphony

by atti?

Mommy wanted a doctor - but she got a broken gurney anchored by obtuse configuration; God apparently doesn't take requests from sluts and junkies. Two eyes multiplied to four to eight to sixty-four and judgment poured across the tile wrapped in umbilical tears, every droplet as abstract as that child's face; she called him, never. Jack Daniel's bastard himself, grinning like an idiot at the look of disdain from trembling lips. Mother greeted mistake with latex smothered oven mitts, and the forehand of another six years to five fingers across his cheek for forgetting to turn out average. He was her anathema, for the simple fact that she didn't like the idea of mirrors or accountability. But that's ok, another eight ball of coke should ease the pain. Shaking hands with the skeletons in the closet to try and find normality - amongst a standard he was whole, but more empty than any bare spine and narrow rib cage could fathom. He was all alone, with the chime of shattering mirrors and the occasional duet from a passing soprano. Never loved, but was never loved.
Counting rings strangled in the puddles beneath his knees, he reached 17 before the water fall was cut down and all that he allowed of his sorrow was this solitary puddle, lonesome as the day it was conceived - as was he. Neversolo, he learned to conduct the voices in his head along the stage he discovered, laid across his forehead. A whore for attention, he spent weeks conducting string quartets atop the silhouette of the locks clasp. Waving blistered hands as if blanch wings of doves, he wrote his first piece beneath yesterday's misfortune and performed it on the eve of solitude. None but all were in attendance, just as he always dreamed.
"What the fuck are you doing!? As if your atrocity weren't horrid enough, you decide now to be a fucking lunatic!" Mother flew across the symphonies crescendo, as the lyrics of metzo-alto made the maestro giggle in joy.
"What is so fucking funny! that is it, I knew I shouldn't have never kept you... piece of shit." The beauty continued to dribble across her lips as he dropped his hand with all sincerity, and an acute thrash met the snare drum before the percussion line raced into densely orchestrated atmosphere. The drums thundered through trembling staffs as the brass section infused with the twin picking bass cellos that mumbled across the innocence of a screaming violin with the most sinister of intention! Faster! Faster! Faster! Arms tense and convulse. Faster! Faster! Faster! Maestro's hands mock the chaos he's created as he flicks his wrists! Faster! Faster! Faster ... before he then falls to his bed, dripping with the arev of his independent showing.
"You did great tonight." He whispered to himself as the music ran down his wrists.