If his dream were shriven for the screen there would be an alpenbone window, soft focus at first, ribbing a head, shoulders in a jaundice of light. Fiberglass eyes ghostfont his face.
A steganographical stutter tourniquets infidelity to self—honesty gravitates, solemnly, in triage.
Airbrushed whirring at the introit. Asynchronous sounds begin of feminine crying, tallowed in midnight geisha. Then a rack focus. A veined neck snakes from under a gruel of whiskers, hedging, funding an underdog-jaw.
A barechest swells out on both sides of the hips. Large dark nipples sway above pink wires striating the bottom of his breasts.
Sometimes people rattle like stripped gears in their sleep, dreaming of betrayal and reconciled years with the betrayer. They call this newmoania; chains of snot krannk, clot against the pistoned tears—stertorous rite—all sidle-down the idle engines of their throats.
I pray for the walking kind, that everyone else will die after prolonged paralyzations, choking horribly on my absence, all sense, rawed mind, taught wrong in a blind rest.
The first days came as fields of uncut cane. Her cheeks grew red, throwing off the heat of sweet potentials. One morning God willed a different.
Her eyes cued an ideogram dammed with petals.
Broke eau-de-nil, her eyes damned first, pinnate, the five white lies.
She was unable to clear the table and sat. Umber dusk fell low as timber, occult, and busked the table, unheard, in shadow.
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