“Receptacle,
help me,” said the baby. That's what it said to its cradle.
Screaming
typed behind on an inflatable wave shape.
It
looked like a form breaking out of a spreadsheet.
The
scraping casually fizzed. A TV pulled from meat's
prolapse
is a reason for salads. On a Ghost Ship,
the
unintentional transition from a man working at
his
desk to odorous sludge on his office chair, “some loose
ends,
baby, I'm just really really relishing surrounding myself with.”
Surround
yourself with going away – a means of being stored.
The
coma's farawayness, which soon mounts further into a
Jenga
coma of storing dropping and dripping blank centrifugal effluence.
“All
the faded languages in our Junk Mail would have themselves
eroded
indoors on the ocean floor.” Transfusion bodily, from the
chair
to the door as a combination of collecting bits of burn and
the
imminent talon on the doorknob: maleficent nerves hacking away
at
the heart of a paintball. The ocean tasty from corporate littering.
Look
out over it: a canvas on which the painter couldn't have
better
depicted hungry scrabbling rats motivating the movements
of
an exotic robot dancer ... Also – if you look further, wider – a
potato,
cracked
by the spring inside a daemon.
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