I’m Flattered, as in flat | Jason Brickman

JASON BRICKMAN

I’m Flattered, as in flat, subordinate to corrugated, my gut is excised, castrated aborted vomit stillness I’m flatisized, My rectum, viscera stomped Thinner than Óleos al pastel on a saltine, Flatter than my asscheecks, than my affect, Flat Stanley, the moon, than the six-month old Rite-Aid which I pour down my feeding tube and no one acts surprised when it passes straight through me, no reaction at all.

I love my viscera, I want them back! Click-clack anxiety attack, What will I do without my pancreas? My mother shoves the stubborn gurney into the trunk of the Prius and slams the door. I consider fucking a whore: love me, trust me, what for? I don’t have a spleen any more

A witch hunt is brewing: Who has my kidney? My liver? My spine? My cecum, my colon, my testes, my stomach, my spine? You can call me heartless, but it’s true; they took that one too.

Check out my foolproof recipe for flaticization:

exiled purple emotional insides turning butterfly wings Venetians Intel potato chips dried intestines uncooked paper oceanic crust cheap purple moon lenses refried winter leaves

A colonoscopy revealed flatation, my tracts are more dense (and lonely) than slate, an industrial press would not affect me, the flatness is (abrupt) complete