V.
Bloodstream was steadily running towards the soft ocean waves. Do you think sand run amuck by blood feels hurtful? Unfeeling sands and thickening clots. What if rectanglenticular scabs came out their walls and hurled away? Blood was not giving out to the water but them. They sucked them in and echoes of delight formed around their mouths: "You cannot hide Gods' stolen spleens". Then the foams fumed and blood fell flat through their grimace. Blood was falling flat but my head's blemish was floating upturns. Like addictive substances skipping up on a head in parallel curvatures— the shapekept pumpkin sliced radiating from the very center like serpentine worms. Soon headfolds expunged and extended and echoed into a concrete apparition.. Ah I can unwind the pain now. And the frosts of a near future. Under a sky like that it was thawed inconceivably. "Ah I can picture the wound now. And the powder of a distant wind. Under a sky like that it had gushed ungleefully". And now even if those landfuls of sands pinned conchae upon eyes, they would not hold pinballs to a zip. I said- "a concrete apparition". Am I past the giants' reach? My head felt like twenty minutes after shower. Lay my head down on a nourished quilt, feeling my moisture against its. The deep earth's core standing on concern much furthest, sends a warm hull across it. The water reflects over it like chameleon and find their places. Then seaweeds rusticated their unwinding claspses. My head tickling on that ivy, I was seeing the grand murale again. There- the stony walls of sand from where the shore dropped mercury-steep. Like an endless falls. Like a blackhellicular weight on fabric of time. Of a wading sprint towards doom, all racers fixed on their startline. Looking up, pints of light could still be made out from beyond water'sroof. And there! Thee giants. With their ornate reach. They are like fats on a giant maze, dipping and dabbling its borders. In fact there were no contingent of sorts. The boldashen stupor, coming out like spoilspseudopodia of an endless chaotic massacre. Not of Ravana's finesse. The picture shrinks out of me, a different impression each time. Now it is feeling like a chokeful of pheromones around God's gladed cunt. How a non-indifferent God practices onany. But even with pictures of suffering and spite so relentless in their agony, would He not see it fit to kill Himself to their shrieks, something akin to a triumphant death in the peak of happiness? Repugnant and enchanting was the quiver of those sufferings. And indeed the mural was filed of being a schizomagoria of all the sadness of the world, perverted beyond beauty. It is a garrison of countless nameless archers and catapults. A garrison that never was and never ceases to be. And the big intimidating fort in midst of them, although made little by the sheer volume of monstermiasma around rampant, stood gloriously. With an authority so contemptuous and emasculating that one would soon start sympathising with the giants. Nevertheless it, the fort, was and will be. My head strung high over its cold glory like a bulb set upon patchwork on tents. And the more I was made to look at it the more I felt my face peel off. A silent storm was alain over that jagged depth of the ocean. Dead skins flinging off, another reverie shed. Like monolithic Roman statuettes. Dictators and queens. Horizonscaped cessation of tarrots...
Funtitled #52
Personnel Apocalips I / A Feminine Caress