The Sound Of Crawling Motif (An Excerpt From A Work In Progress)

"Can you light a candle there...for our souls, I mean?"

She is warm data, chocolate where the starfish meets and greets the empire of orange. It isn't like the androgyny of weeping, the swanky tunnels of light they always refer to in their memoirs, the beautiful creatures and their windows onto those of us who bleed life after life. Skulls fly into duality, emerge with white circles in the chasm of their eye-sockets, a new kind of flag to be reptilian by more gunfire, streets of tittering glass.

Tryptamine's decor is the king and queen of sex, that's the ghostly disease accelerating if mathematics can suddenly wield what breathes freely, mysterious fins. Tuxedo moons, cinematic beards...

"Welcome to the hair and skin of the glazed city," the neurologist whispers conspiratorially into my random memories. His eyes dart between the ample, fleshy breasts of the woman on my arm, watery with television screens and heroin dogs.

"You mean the elves, right?" I grin, patting my stomach. He is pentatonic, his ears melting. He drools Martian sands, restricts his glow, the past two thousand years leaping up and waving furry paws in our direction. The ambience was actually above paisley, the swooning myth of reality behind a bowl of tigers.

I'm a cartoon that's been starving for weeks and yet just now noticed my hands had drowned, jukeboxes dangling, any feeling coeval with the size of this metaphor. She is beginning to elongate, my molecules meaning it's darker than evangelism with warships spread wide, the stench of ideas her pale-blue eyes can't walk away from so easily. She needs to balance the energy-flow, ancient and screechy where it waits for sodomy in invisible texts. Purple to argue the issue's final stages while not a vampire but a thud of cock, the silver code, my wrists.

"Isn't this taking the sound of crawling motif a bit far?" I blurt out to nobody in particular.

I was nearly seven feet tall back when I was alive, but now even the very concept of post-samadhi has made velocity the bottom line. Vision and language flutters dada, jewelry to fend off the genetic junk that increasingly goes on its own savage killing sprees. The suburbs appear between teeth left hastily behind on unmade beds, the machine of worms solved by humming nine-figure asteroids at fine, beige thighs.

The ruptured syllogism is a declaration of autonomy by the photographs currently wasting precious bandwidth on the classification 'staccato after the dragon has turned its head suggests deja vu.' I know instantly from which direction Jacques Derrida will strike, wearing nothing but mirrored sunglasses and three tails instead of one, lecturing as if the abyss wanted to return to a muscled gnosis. No smiling on this road to the opiate palace...