Spit in a puddle of three. Hovering a leg above a pile of bones, the shear skin to say: “Shake and quake, disaster monkies! Hovel not thy tongue, lashed upon the prowess of the may-jus-straight, for to tear the flesh from the chain devil, the locust in the bream.”
Bussoftee nay, a coo from a cuckoo in the cool ridge of disasphasiad time. What did she whumsputter to you in the eddy of an ear? ‘Twixt colliard and cullyard a nanny goat, cloved in licorice, has come. Barounding the gates, the grates, the devil’s purse catacombs, up from the gully of the hearth, through apostle and pains and spoons and wishes. Not a suckling one to detach and swear quarters of dimes at long-legged sea whistlers, having browth the pipe to Uncle Vine. Crossing Aunt Hollywood she stood like a mailbox, green as lime, oblong as much. Emsmirched with Cadillax and Destiny Probe, a way to wield the shirkular web of Ur-Time. When we were young. And blood. and gene. until. until. the shearing came at the edge of a splice, half-becoming one, half-declared another. Pueblo souls escaped from fir needles trekked along a long long longitude from the palace of Great Bear the Polar, who could turn ice into water, or ice into steam, or ice into cream (wish a splash of ole Mr Bailey’s Staving & Loaned! [Oh cruther, what more deserving than the egg’s batter?]) where radiant eyes, cool as dusk, wander from blob to blob, all-smatterings of injustice—a justice littered with munitions and crystals for 1) The Allsee-er and 2) The Awl-Bearer and 3) The snifter in the wind, watching legs grow from streaks of sherry, one foot after the other, from landmine to landmine, all so old they never even glow. But who was to guess?
None in my flock, cowering undercover of matron’s dress, speckled with rye’s last powder, he who wasn’t drunk wasn’t worth living’!, two apex-flushed whiteboys who will one day walk stridently from mother’s cankles, remembering that they were owed the world. And once granted, owned. There we are, then. Cheering up naughty tattlers. Fingering up the other in blame, gazing into the omnibus of mother’s abyss. From the lips that gapeagape down, the dark Eye of Sauron, the umbilical call to venture back—not into safety—into the bleakness of the mad void that lurks just over the ridge of our lives. We’ll come here again, to realize this two-dimensional world ends at the end of this point. It will engulf and devour you regardless. Ventral goes the night, tossed out on her ear, unable to open her eyes in the sun, snarled into waves of undulating somethingness before dissipating franticly beyond a whorl you’ll never be again.
And although I came here to talk philosophy, all spake apace was gibberish, as if, for a quantum moment, they were the same. Touched by the kiss of the same sphere, bent over the lap of spacetime, dreading the punishment, but all too aware of its imminence. A black ant raised his antennae to the doldrums to test the truth of the wind, broadcast in song. A spectaculr, divine thing, to tremor in the breeze and instead hear music. Like a movie for Mantis Shrimp, textural visualization sifting through so much rubble.
I exhale quickly under threat of expiration. Moment by moment a constant fear. Who would we ever think for a moment not to leave these meatsacks behind?