Sky is stupid, so all the clouds were pissed on. Such color resembles a dawn. But is not.
It is audience igniting like throatflares but without the esophagus tray. Without the vista.
A single figure is poised: bandage for the otherwise gaping room.
He must sit alone until something more can find him. He was left without any good ocean.
He was left in this structure: a baggy Tower. Overlooking bald slums of cancer pudding.
Massaged by song, like ghost atlas fizzing over his lips: harmless scuds of tone and felch.
Look down from the Tower. Nowhere in miles, all directions. Canopy dripping calm gems.
Renal solders, bayonets of twisted gonorrhea shoots. Precipitate out sky crotch, Lymphy Way.
Slum towelettes flicker into dunes. Up and down carnation stalls, boys glow in gasoline urinal plazas. Face fecund with teeth substance. Spigots tether cyst, sloppy in patches, curdling into bracelets. Window starches. Each shoves scab-eggs to the doughy part of his cornea.
Each egg is bright. All yolk thaws a rancid-type pain: flurried sensation, gargling whiteness.
Each egg is dear. The walls blush coarse verisimilitude.
He is pain in eggfronts. He is bristled by window scrapes. Like an ornament gone rabid.
Even his eyelids have lost traction: closing them is to swim.
Yet stolid ocean, frothweed and driftwood. Troughs like really long skulls.
No breath is mercy anymore, but is that really so bad?
His breathing bloats to siren: collecting shreds, topographical ruptures, mess of snarling Orcas.
Standing before him like for a billion fucking years. Eyes thick in blisters. One eye. One blister.
Really thick though, egg-laundry thick. Egg-wonderland clouding over.
This film is what allows him focus on the dog. The animal of the Tower.
Who does that dog belong to? Watch the shape glisten in the corner. Yellow fogging, folding the deep black of the dog’s stance, slobber dully twirling like jaw ballet. Eyes fidget like poisoned rats. Fidget like black white of rat pupil in my hands as I walk across the setting yawn. Torn brain, punctuation of ghost-flavored compass. Open mouth and blood after quietland.
Dog is damage and teeth circle in present dark. Hunched in boneless shadow.
Dog is seething an itchy vortex. Garden blendered, fertile in bologna mucus.
He is not into dogs: with eyes or without. Dogs in amefist verbs. Dogs in antlered barks.
He wants school play, wants fingered reflections, wants a sonnet lipgloss. He sings at the dog.
And watches Nowhere beat the shit out of the horizon. The dog too gazes at Nowhere.
“When you sit on yours hands, you fuck with that sun: all gods are deaf,” the dog notes.
“Yeah, but doesn’t they outside read lips?”
He indicates the runny city, which is also so many extra parts of so many extra faces.
Nowhere forages itself. Gets what it’s come to accept.
Storm butchers the Tower portals like a lot of coughing people coughing the same color red.
Who does that dog belong to. Cry yellow knuckle glows, glare the shape flicker in the hallway. His breathing comes forward probing along in clumsy skipping. Mace evolvement and seethe in the parting hall.
A throneless shadow, a breaking apart and cyclonic staring warping of yellow blizzard and gaunt patience.
Thousand pimples of flesh unseen before it steps once forward. Twice lower. Deeper on.
"Can you castrate with just your eyelashes?” The dog wonders and is the feet for a moment.
“No one do that shit,” he says, shivers, and inhabits solid thought. One blister. One habit.
“No, some do... some do. My dad could, but he always clipped his eyelashes,” the dog sets in for a long story, but does it by way of ablative montage: each point overlaps, not quite like penciled, venn-diagram. More like translucent tadpole material in gilled zigzags.
Closes: “He was a frenzy.” The dog sprays onto the ground at our single figure’s feet.
This will make the living room of the Tower true to form. But only the feet. One dog. One feet and then nothing but coughing eggs in the city below. Urinal twilight. Dog statues infest the horizon. It is like a cemetery litter.
By the time he will shut his eyes, there will be more dog and more Nowhere. Single expansion.
He will be seizure all over the place, but he should get used to this position. Stasis jeweling, winning the eggs' confusion.
Turning it towards the Nowhere and the dog as if polarized this way. Crown's dropping out like lung-flaked hail.
This is the result the Tower performs. He gets his own bottomless tattoo.
His abyss is showing. Lunging up, maybe drown. Maybe outsides are too thrifty.
Sometimes you put pits in all the right bulls, bulls in all the right pits. Still, nothing’s actually right.
Still you listen.
