Crushing bay leaves between the toes for a sparkling sheen of raspberry delight, and oils drip from the noses as the eyes wince in the heat of the sun. Hot under the shade of the non-existent shelter, aghast at the thought of waking up into the night's dusty ventures with dentures loose from the rot of gnawing at visions in dreams wet with acid rain.
Cracks of thunder without lightening, down by and along the ridge over the other side. Char grilling the sizzling fingers and feet, red and blistery with sores of beds made from marsh and bones. No aliens to speak of here though, only the foreign vessels sneaking in creepy edges, lying shallow.
Rubbing harsh across the lips, scratching the skin to mix in oils of the bay leaves, for a head full of air. Deep and through bellows of half-functioning lungs, lines blur as the carapace serves another dish.
Out in the wild and there's the constant whistling by the ears. Some are only lucky enough to hear whistles. Others hear too much and find a crescendo that spreads a sonic boom from the back of the head across the cleavage of rocks and split logs.
Nothing will be enough of a distraction from the reddening face and tongue hanging large between the lips of the destined. It is to be a circular notion, running in a spot with no end to track.
Written on Wednesday, 11 July 2007