Zephire (The Thief of Quicksilver - the Mother of Ruin)

I fell down this hole in a spiral of mewling cats.
A cacophony of stars, blinking, blind and brilliant
That spun a druid curse of vapour trail cloud.
Violence dressed in flowers.
My marvels unhinged as one, a desire of kitchen utensils that passed the hair lip stair trip flash and crash of metal objects. Of tin and bronze, chrome and steel. Boxes of charnel ruin that scooped debris on the hoof. The passengers of lost fell upon the glade day as fresh parts in a bad leg hovel.
Scattergun and furious they toast the limp horn crust with saliva from a mule. Its television eye switch from frequency patter can to the high minded ethos of advert.
For on and on galvanise the frontiers of lose chain that assemble like rich tramps in a poor mans Harrods, that fester full broth and crème fresh, tampon satin snivelling groin lust. Her hard hat wears a thin cord to strangle the cries of the amorous and mad. Insane laughter like the beseeching of Grace Poole whose madness silver smith picked the locked sanity of the barman general whilst his foot sore foot soldiers grieved their aching web feet like the scrotum of malachite.
A fistful of time floating down a mist of memory while tied to the harbinger of puddle rack and guilt.