The Wax Conspiracy

as if it would have a universal and memorable ending

Whispers scrawl and scream but these aren’t lesson heeding times, these are thumbing dispatches into the void time, head against the wall and brainsick. New slang, anyone?

Any tsundoku fort in a storm: spine out to dazzle‘em. Here’s one: this one posits Marsyas, caprine, turned into a gourd for calling out the gods; that one: a few ideas about the truly fantastic ways; another: for the dull shine and terrible shimmer of things.

Prep an ice pack for the anus, not for the science dropped, but for the haemorrhoids that won’t be pillowed without a fight. Twin-tone notes blair Inception-style and I can’t sleep until I’m gaping like a fish. Salmonella suckers to get the job done right. What’s another day when the hours are accrued?

En el Jardín de senderos que se bifurcan choices aren’t negotiated, open wounds are. Glorious grief pools in potential wells and I have neither the time nor the diction to do anything but let that water stagnate.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Monday, 16 June 2014

The Wax Conspiracy

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