skonen_blades

Knifebed trampoline explosion marriage, to the hilt, up to your necklace. Arrested miners near the entrance to the chute before the accident. Every vintage photograph crackling at the edges and there goes every single guess at history. Science passes through the eye of the red, red hurricane into myth. Humans before foragers, foragers become shadows, and the rain is eternal. Guesses become fact and religion takes a foothold in the psyche once again, a reason for safety, a safety for structure. Automatic pencils become miracles. The decaying orbits of satellites the stuff of prophecy.

Projected income. Pavilion card houses. Faith in the invisible. Kicking back in the car after the broken bridge railing but before the water. We’re going to turn every James Bond into the dangling broken jaw of an unloaded stapler. The strata under the firmament will jump an inch. A shrug under every grave and building will make them swap places until there are no snow globes left. Scenario souvenirs. You become a scar. Half coat hanger, half human, all pain. A teabag of consciousness sags hotly in the crucible of your skull. You are a puzzle in the hands of a madman. You cannot be solved but you can be made to work.

Translate these signals into forfeiture. Crumple zone my resignation into a dance. The tap shoes don’t fit and I’m bleeding you don’t need to be a dragon to use binoculars. Adept at regretiture. Arounding the park. Sarring the turn. Flawing the plan with an eggshell’s worth of crack. The tether creates a perfect circle around the post but the gravity is increasing past a comfortable standard. There are no stars left reflecting in the lake. The sky is getting much too close to the earth now. My understanding is flattening into a comic. I am becoming a photograph.

Rebilical cords trail from me like ginger pubic hair in a pornographic version of Brave. I shudder in the coming winter but not from cold. The feathers under my skin are painful alien blades. The goose bumps turn to pimples and then harden into ejector pods. I am the opposite of a snake. I am shedding my insides and keeping my skin. My transformation is not the same as before. I have become all throat. The legs on the side of my glass are cooling but my radio is warming up.

It keeps repeating the same message.

Too long dead. Too long dead. Too long dead.





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