The one wall – outside – around side in – into the far yard unknown hoping for the luck of the lick.

Salmuk has been waiting. Salmuk doesn’t remember, but doesn’t refrain from reminding herself to not remember anything. Salmuk is old, possibly the oldest of the Stault. Salmuk listens to the beast of her heart. Falls like the angels egg. Salmuk watches the moon set, one to the next. The blanket in smartas heart. masscerated in the crosssection. The oral solution. orange juice concentrated. Salmuk waits, she knows there is only one time to taste the biennial contour. Salmauk of the stault.

A crying stone has been worn down into a lipstick shape by tears from faces agape. The crying stone waits to become what it already hasn’t… the tail of a living thing, a thriving growing cane of a thing, a dying mausoleum mast making feet soft and going unnoticed.

The hydraulic torso motor of Antikythera. anu mamite. She’ll be remembrance. boiled bills and ground thrills rejoice for the pudding that will never set. The flavor of dust remembers that it tastes like pudding. The flavor of must has disdain for the bygone daise dried out of existing grass. headdress malaise. Good doesn’t have to be good.

lively blue took time too- to throw them. we were clocking silver round rue. dollar plates wrapped in yarn. pitch pots. unlike licked sheeps wool, it took on the character of rollerscape lines, dollar platter snake-nape design. Sometimes i try to roll my toungue and a yellow filling feeling comes up my… wrapping in silk sliding wind in the tunnel, the yellow lights lie, i feel coming up my. was i always reminded of the one time i see them blaring, brineing through the cill of my window. on that pane rested fruit pits discarded and cards that even i particularly remember the ash tray smile. gold glass, someone once filled it with ash, but from a fire, i think it was a joke, in farstep-haste, but it was too similar to what i already do to be a ruse and i knew it to be. they of course, as they do forgot me, well and i never did, forget them – unwell, there on the damp sheets, as i gazed on the bread crust musings of my once astonishingly reversed acquaintance. I feel them coming up, it was as I remembermbered and i amend my slouch, globs of glass now fall down gowns of ash worn as a pit.

breathing in the smell of a live twig. futily musing at the stench. dreaming eyes remembering, watching a plant being speaking, overly focused. worn down into a lipstick shape by tears. just merging. the maze aged hands caress the beads slowly. stagnant as a whirlpool. rather than sleep, this where it devours. burning like corn fields. the bodies countenance. blowing mere dust off itself.

glass tropes pressed through pastel veins . glacial compassion and cigarettes . smoke climbing my hair feasting on the hot wheat of desires . i’ve made of ideas of creations . more casual conversation, less commanding . with light in the eyes and poison . the beauty of futility on the tip of the limbs. the scale, the tone. I have inherited a false calling .

A large glacial forest – I have not seen it before, moss covered it invisibly. Gods to earth – surviving scripts of mental oders – not sure exactly how big, but big, for shoulders. He is thriving within but mainly still lonely. She craves fire and patterns in the shadows of his clavicle. She craves the melting and the rot. And the frost. To discover only hours later, the star shaped birthmark. It existed of two shapes on the nape. Deception of the eleven.

In the faraway trees, immortal mischief. They play where there are changelings. Middle orb and Asp. Drinking arsenic flavoured seltzer. I can feel its memories as I walk closer – I can feel its invisible voice in my stomach as I approach her. She tells me her name…. Fetzel. “Maaaaaaaaaoooooooonnnnnnnnkkkknnnnn”… I can’t fully grasp her name, a stone on the mountain, liquid ascension, still frozen and filled with the current culture. The current song-wound as a postulate. The current, itself as a cave.

The people who visit will never come. Distracted by their choice to flavour air by themselves. Bewildered as they fade. Arisen in the mind of the moon. A kind of flame once begotten. In the depths of a circular monogram.

Shutting the door I gaze upon nothing. I shall never again gaze upon its anything. Making a path toward bodies double its size. A low whisper torn and pricked by various insects. From under the bark they crack with intensity within the molting tree. The wanderer who wields a painted stick and plucks.

Turning the miniature crank underneath my desk, keeps things from falling – and fills the room with pleasant sounds that I alone can’t fear.

Becoming one with the tundra cloth, one with the water dwelling plantlife lifting. With the pitch pine on the windowsill. Ersemine was shaving at the sink. The soil conditioner – bits falling bequeathed to the drain. In unison to the sound of the sea cave. The core of the tunnel hadn’t been visited in some time. The rough cut in the lime. In the den with animal skins. Down below the surface, she waited for her sister to come back with the pitch syrup. Hot syrup fell to the cement when I smelt it – the calcite evaporate.

When the clocks crystal time misremembers – a shriveled flower unwinds between the forked arm of a circular channel . Lilium bulbs- a stolon in the lower hemisphere. A glass alteration to their environment can shatter salutations turning again for them… The spinning swivel of forceps, a swift spinning fulcrum of the limbs – and feet turn fast, with pipe in hand. Chromosome 12. Channel A. demotic delta.

Around the twisting handle of the pin She reaches for the plastic portable lamp. Around the misting fertile mixture. Near the skin. Near the hand. Near the slight bony body of the skeleton fish.

A hallway that has been walked not walked but once, for them then to have seen in their defense – a relentless seething bird-dog whose legs don’t touch the ground. Remembering, their tendons twist in the cavern. She has lived in a snailshell bed for years. In her sleep as a snail creature with the mind of an opaline sphere… with the memories of a crown made of brittle thistle, many days old, a sandcastle at your feet, a sandy thought in your head. While you hide beneath the sheets underneath her bed.

V playing cricket. And the short disaster clown mixing an accidental drink. I’ve seen the horse that looks like the dog and the dog that looks like the horse. Bodies dosing corpses, rotting in the salty sunlight. Bearing down on the shoulders of humanoid highways. So many bodies. Twisted and certain fades. Shaved in the shadows swallowing old thoughts. So many movements. The skin’s flora. Scrying my eye strain. Taking her crudite medicine. A certain aspartame. His pharmacopeia mussel shells glistening. The sea seed withering in amorphous broth. The seaweed scourge of sea seed pouring flamboyantly in rounds. Paddle stirred. Hand fasting the meat of Sunday. When we fell in the harbour, Blotting the cotton gowns worn thin. I am a glass leaf perfectly detailed between the damp sheets of minotaur. Bristle breathing. The need understands the growing of teeth and nails. The shellfish, without knowing that knowledge would be sucked away quickly by the current.

I have a hum, in my neck – it has yet to reveal itself in wordness form. This moment inbetween sounds it…….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just as yesterday was, walking through the grass. To the well, you forget who was looking- washing the many colours of the tail- a slickly feathered freak. Rubbing the obsidian worrystone, to the drover’s daughter’s who disapeared into the hills years ago. You’ve forgotten her face -Pleasure bloating the supercritical stream, or a culmination of stone stick and mud. Your brother made a bust of her – also long gone, him. The aeloncholic temperament.

His funerary mound- a rag soaked in cruel combustibles. Odourless, tasteless, aquatic dissolution. who gushes. The benzene friend. Torn and wound in gauze soaked imperial dye; royal blow. The long fatal heir/air dusting the flies green again. Sealed in cavernous leaves and bites in the sun.

The ground of burning glass. Now I look forward and sideways upon my line – confronted by a crooked smirk, poorly cut red hair – gangly young and twirling an unrecognizable contraption. Stones revived and avenged for oblivion.

Fixel Praxelion’s countenance was one to remember (or so I recalled) – her favorite color was clear. Transparent or clear as her clothing wasn’t made of/as glass (for will be the trend). A white taboo tableaux-esque tattoo of a slip n’ slide wrapping her wraithy fingers and earlobes – possibly her spine. It was separated from her hind. The sea sealed parts of mermaid. Anatomical Mangelle. Zennor the devilfish of Pendour cove. Of all the Milesian boys he was fed the herb of immortality. Of all the milestones in her fabled history she was fed the Zebulax seed of Enik’s grove.

They’d known of one another for a time being (Enik itself) had told them of one another. Fixel’s fountain mouth opens and pours:

“I shot often! I feel that I am to be entwined and twinned with the knight’s knife blade motif.”

Enik was swimming under the sand, eating the shells, and Zennor knew just what she meant. Zennor’s must laden hand detaches and performs a dance. His heart the marionette. The marionette’s sinewy golden string rod and his idol Fixel’s sonical swarthing. The electric mask. His hand mermedium, mer-murrified, un-petrified, performs as Enik perceives the dust performance simultaneously.

The velvet zenith dons the provincial troubadour in a portent pile. Fixed in a rampart peddle it carries his paddle strings down the horizontal plane. Rocking the yoke. Shriveled tending the bushes, nibbling the rose hips, he was sure he liked them. Not knowing his lymphodeionic crown, they dwelt where they once weren’t.

Up yours