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.