Biblofagh

The thought counts, piled in an obese fair, frocked by the stammer, stammers of muffled hair, gyrating in soft bamboo, nuzzled yet so by reddened eye, deep, deep within.

Is it not black, the black of a thousand lights stained from within, or is it not blue, the choking of a waterfall, 

how do you do it?

The noise breathes in

As if silence indeed does deflate

No

The silence,

The silence is a killing

Khl pans in, he is neither startled nor sunken, nothing inside, they added, but white iglet bones, his teeth ruthes like  pale jest, nothing, nothing’s here, he looks at us ma, like a meatridden moor, his ears lap at us,and the clock stitches itself quivering in the chorus of our taut wearish sun, and he is right there, sucking the white flowers that gore from us.

His hands cleave in distenous phlegm, elfing out poorly, hath the red circles swallowed you whole, coloured springs chewed out by your barren herd, why are you doing this, have you gone quite mad, have you not a dream, where your family filled your dark cricket circles, your valley loam, crevices of a jury that filled your pretty laces, birthed in your blood.

The hallway reminds me of the one, the one where I twisted my winged toe. It had a stairway, so long it laughed, and I was half awake then too, sometimes I did tear, it would never end,this crackling moon, as if it was felled everytime, I latched on, dissolving in the neutered shawl, the one that is comestible, ma would say, it had occurred to me once even, whether one is subject to any sort of conflated flea, so peers her limbing being, walled in heavy dark pastry

Heath scorns, he’s sparsely mootie, have you not seen the frets and the screaming jest of those violets, prue in parody daming into filaments and he walks past julie, brutalist gems in hard boiled sand, his heart lampens down, orating his terrible shiver.

“Julie”

“You look asthmatic, like a hummingbird feeding on jutish hair,or, a jarring angel head, take the heavy breaths, one two three sill”

Heath marred, her words gyrated him and the piss of the earth dug a horn in him, all for him to inhale, crouching, come on angel child, feather your wings and flee, I don't want you here, you are starved, polluting nevertheless my depravity, arch liquor, and the bees jingle, they have been hushed, I see you gouge their voice, in your harpish eyes.

“Are you there”

“Yep”

The trees gushed, and no I can't look at those eyes, brimming in the ferry must, and she smiles, in infinite jest. Her jeans pooled into a hardened moon, brushing the seeds , floating by your fingertips.

“What's the dress about”

“Absolutely wonderful isn't it, I feel complete in different ways that I thought was ever possible, look a synthesis of genius”

It was something, postmodern wording, all huddled around her body, her jeans muddying into a vegan frock, something indeed so

“The occasion?”

“Nothing particularly”, even if I wanted them all, dressed in chyme around me, worshipping my dead feet, peering close for the final gag, a little toe bite

“Aren't you all a bit sceptical of the invitation”

Jules brightened, the lamp bugs hail to her eyes, sanguine as can be, her mouth swooshed, telling on her mothy dimples, betide under gashing frown that followed always so, in timid rage.

“How would you know, it's not something you would know?"”

“Khl, he looked quite excited about it, not the average demeanour either”

Jules grayed, her jeans broomed more blue, she was theirs, her eyes gutted and waved, properly on a nightless earth, she wouldn't let the flowers touch her either.

There is but a semblance of curvature, the mechanical joycian prying over the tips of our finely affirmed knees, perhaps bringing forth a superlativity in the plethoric activisms of our emotions.

The positivist modernity is,intuitively a jarring concave in the seismic values of emotivity, for is it not more credible how fineness indeed have affirmed our ‘truths’, and to surely drown this very particular nature of self, have we not just swinged certain hierarchies that crowd the ecstasy of our humanism.

The lessness perhaps intuitively broadened in men, spiralling closer to the our animism of golden times( how sore they york), a God submerged finally resuscitates, a god channeling our tears, mooring over our gaiety.

Is it like any deity that fallop this yearnest, stomping upon thee by the tendrils of our hearts, flagellums of our muddled twines, it's rectangular you say, it hath the children of a stone curtain, oh nora, he chars, the tears vaporizing into vaccum, the bloat, the red chalks tighten gently around his lungs, mashing together, in hungry mist, oh nora, please shut the f**k up.