The Sepulchral Gazebo

There’s a bear in a dress at the top of the stairs. A candleflame flickers, casts its granular light upon the deserted deck of a whaling ship. Neuro-accretions in soft tryptamine sleep. Wherever the stage disappears in blackness. A caboose snowed under. You ripen at will and I like it. Nothing develops short of this widening diaphanous summer squall. Choral reefs ring the tomb, and abominate the residual typhoon. Toxic libations murmuring enveined through your biovenetian floodways. But in the morning she is everything neolithic and savoury. A quavering aquarian harem in the quarry. A quorum of slavering Pre-Raphælites relinquishing diction for a prime ordeal latent with lysergic appeal.

Ultimately you get two staircases out of it, but initially there’s just the fog ... And you are the one who has been pumped full of ghosts. Their feigned tincture. Every hourdaze coming through the pipe, like a suntarnished egg tumbling from its chute into the ignorant and diffidently gluttonous pond below. The city, on the other hand, grows soft and porous within the storm. I cry before your dumptrucks and sausages and skyscrapers. I have been dead all these years and you never once noticed.

It’s a pathetic little cart without wheels, and it wants a good nailing – yet you risk your life for it, Father, down in the tube. Ah, well, it ends in a jubilant embrace when you come up alive and all soft with age. I can’t particularize the sensations, they’re from yet another realm and my permit does not extend (mnemonically) to this tremendous emotional zone.

Diffuse portability. Air bludgeon. Vernacular slope. Flossy chisel. Gown rampart. Molten negligence. Curve pummel.

Your slick damp stare growing across me like mould. I look at the world as if through slats of closed venetian blinds. Every time I think of you I get a shock. Sparks fly from my Horus eye, spray from my crown in a luminous froth: brain waves crashing on cranial shores. On obsessive nights this stroboscopic cogitation hypnotizes passersby on the street outside my room.

They’re all running away to join the circuits. Watch them disappear into the electrogel.

Everyone I’ve ever loved has left for the space stations. All that remains to me is a dead man with an accordion. Whenever the subway train rumbles past beneath the apartment, it shifts him just enough that he plays a single note of Quarantino’s Rigor Mortis in D Flat. If the trains would pass twice a second, he'd be more alive than I am. There's a note stuck to the fridge door. Its crayon letters have melted to a coppery olive green string of spectreglyphs: PREPARE THE MEAT OF THY DOG.

Deliriant cataleptic. I am a bleakness. In streams like these, motions turn up that cannot be replaced. One of us is dead, I can’t tell which, but we reconnect here. Generate terrific monuments made of coloured steam. In hail we storm the edifices of a scream more incredible than the bursting of a thousand hearts amplified through vacufazers at full speed.

Untimely script from the loom of oneirica. Own an area in a nano era. A molecular tremendum.

Open the Gaudì folds and release the thing.