Scooped Nudibranch Brains

The two olives in my lemonade like a fuzzy room where they get stinky with the exiled whoremonger. A car full of nails and a bowtie balloon make a lot of noise in the alley. Also, the crabby brats dancing on the tarp.

There's nothing wrong with our fathers who are learning how to make their own noises with their bum beaks. It makes the gray corn guy sleepy.

The exiled whoremonger has escaped! The tarp has been abandoned but there are three empty shoes laying there. And the nails are also on the ground and that's what ultimately stops the whoremonger. While the gray corn guy dreams about drowning olives, our fathers drag that whoremonger back to the trailer. His feet leak blood from the cursed asphalt field of nails to the wood porch.

Chanting and also whistling

It's a teenage Halloween! That means it’s time for another lunge toward a pattern. The faintest scent of vanilla heralds a really bad local emergency. I can’t help but vibe with big ’80s energy.

Elsewhere, we get more neoclassical piano; it is the best kind of preposterous. No amount of masterful drum programming could make a consistently joyous the tackiest glitz imaginable.

Identical Radiation Masks

Our faces are soap, our faces are slippery and fragrant things. The rest of our heads are soap grafted onto wooden bodies.

Our faces are wet and losing mass. The exfoliating seeds in our heads, exposed to the air and the sun's voice, fall to the ground.

Our eyes are inside bubbles. The exfoliating seeds dropped from our heads germinate into the distorted world, their cotyledons catching and reflecting the sun's voice back into our melting ears.

Cat in a Suit Frying Costume Jewelry

You must not drink the liquid of the reservoir this month: it will bring into your corpus an obscure parasite with the ability to transform the voice into a forgotten music.

Your cries for help as you vainly try to tread water will sound to the birds like mating calls. One will strike you in the head. The sucking hole left behind will let out the memory smoke, instant death for any insect passing through.

When they fall to the water, the surface ripples and shatters the star light, the last thing you see as you sink to the submerged village below. The fish, taking their unexpected feast, will find their minds filled with terrifying new colors and sounds.

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.