Legislature of Eels

Father moves his injured body from the upturned wagon to the video barn. A horse in woven trousers listens to a collection of alt-rock hits on compact disc, an obsolete medium which nevertheless acquits itself admirably. The horse is suitably entertained, flashing a dog-eat-dog sly smile at father as he lumbers to the legless sofa in the sunken leisure pit and reclines, groaning.

The mute offspring arrive next, satchels of ground glass and spices at their hips. Then oldest of the offspring mists father's flesh with a dilute vinegar solution and the rest dust him with the glass and spices, each reciting their stanza of the Dreamwords. As father's flesh absorbs their gifts, his friend the horse loses himself in a moment of deep contemplation over the frankly nonsensical lyrical content of the song he is listening to.

Isometric Ripples

The wan sun provides inadequate illumination. The arms of two people on the concrete levee extend until the hands at their ends meet. These, in turn, enmesh and squeeze. The people intently hold each other's gaze, whispering secrets.

The machinery cools in the rust meadow below as the dead demon's body rolls down a steep incline, coming to a rest at a pile of emptied food receptacles. Somewhere, a lost telephone warbles a plea for attention, unanswered.

The observer leans out of the greased funnel as best they can, the exertion forcing out an involuntary spurt of saliva which pools on the ground, inviting a crust of ash and other powders. Until the inverted flesh producer arrives, this is as close as they can come, failing to read distant lips, inventing secrets no one can share.

Swallowing Nun's Sock

I was told to imagine my penis as an advanced space-faring vessel, drifting through the witless void. You cannot guide someone into adulthood: you can only push someone too hard into the burden of sarcasm. This person will become mineral: Earthborn mystery.

Buffeted by solar radiation and unseen arrows, my great dick ship and its forlorn crew of two approached a dreadful planet. Guido the desk armorer played vanished school anthems. Bunny the damp broom lacked the macho instinct needed to crank penis hard.

I was instructed to imagine myself — the torso and limbs hanging from the posterior of the phallus — as the ornery artificial intelligence controlling the fleshy vehicle. Possessing infinite authority and malicious stupidity, I doom my penis to a quick and brutal destruction.

Yeast Throttle

Nicely skipping on hot soles the basket face man gives the flavor. Stone ball rattles in the hollow hat import a sweetly fermented sense of domesticity to the interior of the dwelling. The bread he ate fuels his toe slapping frolic.

The expensive flowers on his britches, the brown striped ribbons around his wrists, and the glittery cloud of ornamental vapors about his comely head bring us a gladness unmatched.

To be with him, to eat of his peas and lie with his pregnant sows, is to press one's chafed navel against the flesh of an imagined fruit, like an emoji invented by a child, badly interpreted by a sophisticated artificial intelligence.

The Finest Moisturizing Curtain Salve

She's in her own home and surrounded with her own freshly laundered towels. She drizzles them with her signature Italian dressing, looking forward to seeing the racially diverse race drivers in their gaily colored vehicles. She's sitting on her sunglasses, unfortunately.

The race administrator leaves his villa, walking until he's running, running until he's vomiting cubed lettuce and soy hash on the charred carpet of the former hotel's lobby.

In foil packets, the lumpy poultry steams in the bathroom. Our heroine will eat it with naked fingers on her balcony, waiting for the race that never begins...

Permission to Join the Bamboo

I might be the first person to sit on this island, in my personal zone of comfort, twisting this band of manufactured calcium fiber. The first time these sounds have vibrated this particular microclimate of this place. It's my lonely pursuit. I will replicate it elsewhere.

Under my feet, isopods find damp homes where the grout — a rustic local variety, no doubt — has degraded and formed something that can be transformed into a suitable shelter. They are undisturbed by the frantic labors of my fingers and the frequent curses erupting from my lips.

I have something good to think of when I'm dying, if I can remember.

A Green Bed Truss

This is a great texture: airy, terraced, washed and snackable. It's a fine piece of luggage and I will carry it with pride on the ferry to the hospital island. Im hoping that the children I see will become good people. I dont know that it will happen.

The rocking of the ferry on this gentle water brings me to a mental space of joyful relaxation. Striated thoughts — memories of my fraught schooling — slip into vapor. Salted kisses from the grave.

Tomorrow this ferry makes its last trip to the mainland, failing and sinking to the bleached coral wastes below. A playground for bored executives with expensive wet suits.

Fluorescing Until the Demon's Lunch

Wilting sleep in a carriage abandoned behind the major retail chain location, dream that clover sneeze.

Zucchini and cheese with a morning sandwich, devil eyes roll into a routine triumph of elasticity. Frog clown hunger stimulates a post-nuptual tantrum.

Dream the gilded trampoline, fill the video with me and your family.

Evaluating Preemptive Oracle Murder

I might sit in the swirl alone, exactly alone. There is a consciousness here: an unmoored ragged thing.

Agitating, this presence forms and reforms repeatedly, shifting a face into a lung, a nipple into a navel. These tissues respond only to themselves.

Really Solid SEO Master

I will set up the phone for you. You can download a new stain for your exposed bone. Roll the phone in tannin-rich leaves and bind with cotton twine. Twist a finger into the correct shape for the bottom jack. Tinkle first! It will take more than an hour.

Grommets in the Incubator

Scalloped rompers, eyesores for a picnic, and the oozing of the dark stone portend formal wimp flesh cravings.

Wimp meat baked in plaster slabs flakes fibrous like pixelated portraits.

Tube cranked wimp meat liquifies readily, good to squirt through pump chutes to prank fancy towel vendors or witty people in silk suits. Pick on a wimp, teach the wimp milk magic today. Rip the wimp apart.

Itching for Charlie's Hands

These people are properly insulated. They hate their jobs but with the fine reactions to their screwtop polo shirts and soaked neckties, paisley quilt weekends are the norm.

Twig arm hugs solidify the geometry of affection. Etched weed runes carry the whispered curses of the designers of our insecurity. Welts rise on the leather.

Cervical Worm Flood

Truth lies in the etchings of enamel, product of rootless wives and grifting mothers.

A movie made for a goof makes dad happy. His tidepool smile tells the story of our future.

Putting me in your mouth, you squeeze police car lights into the room.

Kitchen Sluts!

A hard gray flame in the object, which is an imitation of a person's head, makes a cool sound like dried sponges rubbing together fast. It was donated to the school by a Realtor® who owns a local pub.

The pub's funky barkeep bakes a special sort of a soup cake called a Blouse Pump. Selling them at the community farmers market, she makes enough cash to pay stripe licking hunky fellows to tinkle on her sister, a person she despises!

In the cold brick school, future netizens engage in a cruel masquerade. Dramatic brat fights occur daily, and it is only a matter of time until the fake guy's head is damaged. Repair will require not only the proceeds from the sale of hundreds of Blouse Pumps, it will necessitate less contract pissing in the name of revenge.

An Incredulous Witness

In view of the bizarre happenings in our world today, we advise tympanic communications sneak messages of mild affection and prudent disdain. In the boat-like dwelling, a heliophilic wise lady who knows a lot about mycelial response to human emotion sneaks her own special spice into the groveling routine of immature craftsmen.

She is the mother of four daughters, who refuse pleasure whenever the opportunity presents itself. Clutching their excised toes to her chest, she sings a pretty lovely tune to herself, and to her unseen watchers.

She has a vivid imagination and will live this way, steeped in unprovoked malice, until the neighbors intervene.

Aching Plumes of Garlic

Last night, a family experienced a looping convergence of tick dreams, spiraling iterations emerging from the psychic navel

Mother saw the tick with the gear-marks on its back, beached like a whale on the edge of the estate's central retention pond

Father felt the sucking of the fist-sized tick on his back and felt his skin orgasm and soften, embracing its passenger, providing refuge

Brother sat side-saddle on the herd's tick runt on the ash plains, his eyes protected by name-brand athletic goggles

Sister's hot tick sandwiches provided a free and nutritious lunch to schoolchildren experiencing poverty

Rapid boil ticks in hydrogen peroxide

Methane Smackers Whisked Hard

Out under the yellow horizon, a door leads to the calm. Revolving, sheathed utensils seem to serve as a kind of prize — unwelcome, perhaps, but certainly foreign.

Welcomed thusly, the fear rises in strong jazzy throbs. Supposedly, a key is hidden in the pavement. I fail to find this fact charming. The royalty show no signs of life and I honestly don't know what they are.

Illusory machines exhibit a structure heretofore unobserved, vaguely heretical, intensely aggravating. So no one here knows amusement or follows procedure. But their eyes swell with lust regardless.

Jonathan Slabflippers

I cough cheap linoleum perversions into this retail crypt. The webs dissolve, speedily!

Flat phallus clocks sponge up the conversations of the clerics below. They're laminated by their own aerosolized saliva. I don't know how that happens.

The clerics collect their wages from the radio administration, enough for a humble meal of celery lint and cabbage rolls. My curse, apparently botched, is forgotten.

Fields of Familiar Traumas

Pimples of light in the black face of the sky and the moon like a kaleidoscope's tongue: gently throbbing with stored secrets. The whistles from the surrounding vegetation seem to give names to the sky's scars.

In the bag at your feet, some hot screaming candies shaped like fisted cones begin their inevitable sublimation; the vapors escape their containment and enact their brutal fantasies upon your flesh.

You strip the tacky film from your face repeatedly, to no avail. I'm deeply apologetic. I should have warned you about the candy.

The Slick Eyelids

Offered fragrant cabinets, the town's eldest Realtor swaps clamshell rubber for stubble stones. In her coastal chic jumper, she sweeps her fingers over a porcelain dog belly. Punk. Private dialects of desperation.

Every afternoon, she jettisons a measure of her ornate martyrdom. Rigid miniature planks of cellulose inserted under the neck skin prevent the dissolution of innate hubris.