Conestoga Wagon Full of Rotten Old Vacuums

I have wasted most of my life harvesting trouble in the dark boulevards of my home town — a place of stubborn sex workers with the grit and the nerve to push around cops. My legs are streaked with scars, the traces of the mites I encounter on my nightly sojourns. I love to smack trash can lids with table legs or big leg bones from dead guys. I make such a racket and the sex workers smack me around, which I actually like. I look into oily puddles and try to make sense of my distorted face.

The Inequities of Her Absolution

A false image of a cloaked herbalist in an overgrown coppice. Hairy moss sends tendrils to the breaking moon light.

Falling crystalline voice sifts through dessicated wafers, breaking into brittle harmonies before reaching the roots.

Without optical stimuli, the herbalist's various companions take heed of the sky-song to re-dream their mistress's touch.

Crayon Holes Emitting Negative Energy Yodels

Fungus grip brings memory to an unplanned deconstruction. Remember the name of your body or command the air to oppose the frost. Body scales lock together for a tough shell but also with fabulous performance: capturing and reshaping the light, delivering it back to dazzled observers.

To simply wear this fine and luminous skin of chitin is a nearly undescribable ecstasy. To feel the bodies of one's enemies breaking upon it like rotting vegetables, their accumulating vital liquids hushing the light, is to be infiltrated by a despair mycelial in its sophistication.

Twinks Rally Under Mountain Pass

I think that the life of the roots pressed thick in the dancing soil is a real life.

No less real than the life on the Earth skin among the star's heat and mingled pheremones.

As real as the silent speaking in all bodies, the mother of these words.

Our Hirsute Pleasure

Here's the big bulb in the sock. I think there is a cat under the shed. The rubber from the round instrument has begun to melt and I felt it drip onto my head's bald top.

Float! Speak while you're floating, to remember yourself. If you can, listen to the flying things, feel the light divorced from the stars, and never forget the touch of cool wet rubber.

Wild Gift

Vermicultural hymns echo through the artificial canyons of the cemetery for hot guys. Big stud mourners weep in the shadows of concrete tree proxies.

Slapping naked thighs with wet hands, the guys in the office fear no bruises!

Bald bird cream dripping from the rafters makes the place seem like a motel where a surgeon goes to decieve himself.

Assaulting the Drone Lab in Moccasins

The clay abbot is eating with the help of fishermen's offspring who have been trained to gently operate his jaws and massage his throat to allow for the efficient passage of fish flesh and pasted herbs to the steaming vat of his belly. The food is good enough for the abbot but the wine, sullied by beetle larvae and their excrement, will be put out for the stable folk.

Boiled in tin pots, the abbot's drink shall instead be the spinal fluid of the fishermen themselves, harvested by the abbot's mistresses in their black gauze hoods and capes. By the time of the feast, these gorgeous skanks have retired to their richly appointed bedchambers to enter a catatonic state, dreaming of the fish who now swim free of fear.