Veils of My Ancient Chloe

Terrarium

Our city, the only white one left. But supposedly with no glass beyond its parking lot. 

Statues explore their rot just outside. But still no outside so far, they say. They talk less these days. 

I can barely make out the gas stations that calm each corner. 
Yellow traffic lights, like ancient sails, slap their signals incessantly, out hard. 
No one would recognize this as survival without the Mall close. 

I stare up to the moon, where super-tall men rake out maria. 
Nothing usually comes out here at this hour, except for the blind soldiers foaming for scraps, pale horses that follow them. 

But sometimes she opens up, arriving on, soundlessly tearing through, demanding total softeyes. 
Ghost brims through our sewer openings, rising, twitches night, in winging cough. 

Over clorox meridian, she gazes. Can you touch her? Yeah, sure. Get to it. 

She goes by Chloe. But she only answers in rewinded field-verbs, blowing memory like detergent polyps, vodka dots. 
She might understand but she chokes you on. 

She centers my speaking sun.

Dawn Blotches

Chloe smiling. Pools and pools, ready, turned their bellies towards her.

She ossifies her cloudy spittle, backing up and down her vent-like assemblage, abacus of eyeballs in blinky sluice. Veins wash over her hips like coat-hangar minnows. At once hard, splitting, fluid. When she cries, spores oracle into place. Summer coughing out of her in wads of gold tendon. But where will you go? And the fields sag after her. 

Stare up to her gardening breath. She shall recite the passage through the forest depths: gatherings of mutilated oaks where Citerphion shuttles white in marbled berry. I stroke your spinal fluids calcifying, de-calcifying, so many tentacular dicks. Yes, many, many. 

Listen closely, you can just make out a light, popping pulse. Our evaporate body. 

Take me through to the bitch-turf: parted gutblur of forest hamper. Cello pinion, amber castle.  

Symphony goliath enriches elder longtree, where the frigid hoplites technolate. Where polygon. 

This tree that knows no tree. Tongue tree snowflaking phlegm. Seethes violet blubber from its ballastudded face. Calls away dark spheres to fragile damage, lighthouse intestine real skinny. 

Collects panes of echoed appendages on cartoon foam, lactates a brand of wink. Shivers.

Chloe moistens into ripple seeds. Does not hear me, watches crude birdkids rummage through bushes near the parking garage instead. Sitting quietly upon the ground, complacent in meridian bleach. Soften flurry of wings around, juts gill-kites in cheerful imitation. Mouth-spangled across the grass, discharge plucking up dandelions to watch them away. Worm larynxes hum viscous carols, gummy songs of layers and layers of heart. Always playing games, often uses animals otherwise unwilling. Plunging them under, such endless giggle, sour architecture to swallow. 

But no issue bores through, all tunnel to the moist grayness of the lot. Like the masquerade is blush fizzing, no fingernails, no teeth left to move. Nothing stands still in the sunlight.

I have my happiness below my eyes. For today immolated my insides. 

Today is our wedding.

The Forest Temple

Once upon a time, however, mouths behind the leaves, under the frozen dark. Long bodies of the one creature shaped in a window of hallways. The Citerphion who always comes closer. 

Who always, stroking the white VEIN of beyond, ultraviolets himself with tantra.  

“We must kill her, we must eradicate that bone passage from all her fatassness,” chant the Citerphion in rainbows, juice dragging from their throats. E-coli tinctured satyrs on the banisters. 

Snot-apertured boys, clothes flesh as feral Power Rangers. Dizzy to just think, endless potential skulls. To eradicate her of that unlevel skull pond, that shit could totally ripen their collection of anatomy, blisters, foam, coast. O, how sweet!! Something to gargle again. 

Each is now peeling a whisper. 

“We must kill that shit head,” the Citerphion chant, as him of infinite salmon feathers, twenty mile glittering tiara. Grotto-cuirass dips his newly regenerated proboscis into the spine of young god. Blood cushions, streaming up-- openly, no stool moon. E-coli satyrs hack off the tits of a macaw-headed violinist, ooze trickles eclair celluloid. Lap it up they do.  

Him collects his feathers around like fluffed-glace pepto and suckles some offspring, thousands and thousands. One emerges as polypy song, ambient and bold with tingles. Seething a colorful landscape and fingernail throats, gold, magenta, rustorange, baste coloring. Violinist shriveled by her face. Like furniture, visits come and hole up. Heads shrink back to their fibers, eye-vases whine over the threshold, banshees zit up in the skin. Process very wet these hours. 

“WE MUST KILL HER, WE NEED YUMYUMYUM,” the Citerphion sweat out brackish materials, lanes and lanes. Their fuckgut of the sky commences too. Routine, yes. First one, then two, then all three skies follow conversion download into form of pure laugh. This a noise deprived of exact impetus, stripped of any object color or code. 

Laugh like a closed season. Or like a person only touching. What lactates armpits on all sides. 

The Citerphion make their way through the uppards, rainbow gliding all throughout them in jibbed-wyvern flourishes. Once they catch scent of new sun, the fun won’t stop vibrating. They will stop at nothing until all her flesh burns with their pouches and waste. Twitching gowns of congealed flames, squirt further layers, no puss left behind. All watching, so close so. 

Ring around the rosy quakes and portal light sets closer and closer. Brightest light precums. 

Inside Our Mall of Happyland

“The parking lot again,” he says, but mouths only seen mouth eyes around. 

Now in the middle of the Mall, by the palm tree squares and manatee statues. Heads motion on top of haze of bodies, some immobile and yet glide. Speaking in gentle bursts, pitches swathed in voice rinds. The mucus emerges misused in leather vocab. Placid floorways. Plenty of ceilings. Lights collect around passers like winged specimen, ghost torn. 

Constellation ventricles dangling 

over her shoulder-groves like pigtail spaghetti. 

Primary dress-layers adopt mustard hue, 

but this varies with exposure to radiation, laughter, animal. 

New species produce out her suspended ponds. 

Percolating insects of heaving belly. 

Umber moths mercurial, hornets dot atlantic frost. 

Shifting speckle, cell, puss. Teething mist of insect 

spray hovers gently around eye-strap colonies. 

Fog of parting holes. Sheer barriers transpose, 

cascade infection, buffeting visage in milky kevlar. 

Templar long, miles into sleep, seethe zipper-zapper.

Inside the ceiling are thick, thick windows. Strips cover them. 

At the center of the Mall a grand fountain emerges. Like a fossilized hydra, though it listens. 

Liquid heads blossom from the material. Squeaking noise first, then crack and shudder. 

Itchy feeling, bit by something again and again, yet not infectious. Simple. Sorta comfy. 

Standing one in the Mall sanctum. Palm trees, linoleum, even the ceilings glistening.

Children go, allow one flutter. Pearl trees. Thrown trees. Water through a fountain. 

Blush of the water. Fountain on the children. They on the fountain like barefoot, toeing change. 

Walls upon walls ripple in the water folding. 

“She still in the parking lot?” The boy staring, he wears a blue helmet. His eyes seem forever. 

They can alone me any time, day or week. I am ripe time. The boy seems to watch me blasting love, somewhere deep within topographic, avalanche eyes. Retina sloppy--  Let’s ripe it away. 

Fluorescent haloes, on. Off. Spinning buzz-saws of mythril and glitter join beneath these bulb patterns. 

Bright, on. 

Hot, off but off off and neither off off off but yeah. 

Stepping to her, goofy with those eyeballs, squashed black capuchin-- 

let me back off a sec, yeah? 

I need to gag on this kid’s stingray wrist. Dick so hypnotically...

Metastasize onto presence, latch halt. 

Aureole cocoons out of her noise, each 

breath greasy. Wing cancerous aura loops. 

Chloe endless cakefins, forming unforming, 

gargle core bleeding and bleeding bleeding.

Splendid pressure, 

falling at my face bright in gnarled

solar branches, recites the lapse hems. 

Ruffling throats like crepe skinprints. 

Always, stepping forward to her. 

Chloe opens her laugh chute. 

If I leave her, she will emulsify landscape 

with muscled effluvium. Whisper away 

into the surrounding cavities. Petals of fat,  

cruel, membranic horizon-hoops. Wilderness 

lent eyesong, observing softly planets vomit. 

Saturn diamondscape in kiddie blotch, like the grainy portrait I once saw by kindergarten. 

“She’s not really still out there, liar.” The boy all staring. Blue helmet fading around the other side of the fountain. 

He stares at him as if they both stand on a swelling bladder, translucent with aeon.  

Gross with fetus armor, heavy too. Spinning clockwise, billows, flapping or something.

But disassembling, anointed teeth still. Grease, frosting, lead doves, everyone awake now.

Hungry Atlas 

First the Citerphion settles, each fibrous smear through up back back. 

Collapsing into nectoplasm. Which is like the TVs who escaped and swore ritual stomachs. 

The resulting slobber leaks onto the parking lot ridges. 

Where vehicles usually feed, his Greater Spine latches into place. Every cell blooms its own channel of feral plot devices, dark camera angles, Mayan cartoon operas. The shows combine with advertisements, gelatinous pheromones and archways pump in rhythms. Morph the parking lot debris into new receptacles, new armored infants. Shattered glass oxygenated by screams. 

The forms they adopt lashing about for cancerous mirrors. The fountain still running. 

One expects a disturbance of the power folds, but there appears on the tile floor a renewing gap. 

See the hole, where the rinds intersect and make a sort of figure-eight of teeth. But these, sticky teeth of sap from petroleum woods. So they don’t hurt when they mangle away your face. 

When it loosens, then some more. Each mouth gripping, sometimes shredding through. Like a scab harvest but heavy metal yawns too. Collection. Red arms seem to pop out. Purple skin under purple skin to reveal thick, milkyblue muscles. One seven-mouthed head barbs away at some ass, mashing the shit in spud waves, kind of a paste results. Slurp up, pontoon slugtongues bumble across the ponds. Kind screech way too frequent. 

“You moisten to know our here,” the Citerphion smiles. Glossy wings pile out of spines drizzling in corinthian sewage, pillar rolling and rolling and grind. Platelets stampede like giant rabbit-horses, all fur hooves and foam language.

Every vibration I can see across your face. You becoming less less every touch. 

Rewinding your aura some? Symbiosis the new black. Your pupils freshen static XXL. 

The Citerphion stands before the Long Fridge’s Ossuary, gazing down at his two hands white cold. So many years have been wasted in just a few, what, ninnyneeeneeenanoseconds? But the beast sanctions back and forth between its metropollasal cheeks, melting a bit. Only a bit. 

“We will not leave you alone again, we will take you back,” the Citerphion looking at the sun. 

Not at me. 

Immunity

Sitting down, he waits in the pale cafeteria. Any patient man would recognize him as their own. 

Two boys bounce up and down, their legs meant to be pogo. A bone sound glitters out. 

When he looks up again, candles blue on their tops, rows rows rows. Chittering around are figures in metal tuxedos, frayed expressions, maggoty pulses come together. These snare facial excrement, constant buffering of destroyed nose matter and skull rinds. Orchid putty, several form of glob sifts out of their vacant delight. They acute every dimension. They grimace but so placidly attentive and pour saline solutions from their kool-aid ligaments when necessary. 

For the umbra eat, you see, the white mucus of suns set for a dead fit a perfect ring, alloyed iris. Phosphorescent pupils who garden in chemical statues. 

Even the moths look up from their caustic udders to record, combine, one day to suffocate, hold it in, hold it in. You will the dragging. You help him sit down and hold in his noises. 

Do you want some, but what could it say to her. Every day the same color wins, flushes up to me, like mapping out of me, like charts of blurred crystal. Her earrings stapled with ruby static. Blitz clouds overhead, summer fragments glaze the patio. 

She was waiting for him by the pool. She wore nothing but her tanlines. She sipped at chlorine water, every one of her scabbards tousled out and moan slippy. When he saw her, he forgot what to eat. “Do you want some rub on me, or with me too?” His cock misunderstood and sniffed one of her torn sections. Her throat asshole purrs. 

Our meeting conjugated bone for the better, I guess. 

If not better, warmer. If not warmer, closer. 

If not closer, control blossoms through our unhalted bones.

You have cancered a ring too, cha? Thanks for the encouragement. 

She looks at the ginger airplane, head locked in zenith quartz declensions. She so ready for the dry oceans of dark that come with constellation tower, but no cities. No glass fountains who scald boys jacking off nearby. No open-mouthed women, abortions frolic at their coathanger masks. Pubic hair siphons out a tubular essence. It waves up and down, mimicking the soft walls. 

No one really ready for me to kiss her, sealing her in our gown. Our wedding swims below us.