VEIL

We've pierced the membrane of sleep with our knives. We've climbed in, careful not to tear it too far. It's hot in here, like a berry about to burst. Grievously hot and sickeningly sweet. Our facial bones pulse, pregnant with a forming, inner mask of sweat, about to bloom on us, on our cheeks to fracture the sky and make the moon run along slickened ridges-- glints of unconnected letters, like a babbling transliteration of an organ leaking in runaway crisis, wringing out its dreams as a dark, oxidizing serum.

Like a dual recession of fetal twins, slowly disassembled back into an encompassing, spongiform engorgement, we've managed to adjust our spectral signatures to that of the background; melting in; hidden; invisible; uniform against the heartbeat gloom of morning-- grey games made blood-fled white, like flesh pressed hard-- to the collapse of radiance and the eviction of street wolves from sublevel and machine-level; fast garden with crisscrossed daemons catalyzing function-- surveilled panes shunted into glandular displays, unpausing into bunched, charging, maniac motions-- a smile pools like a bruise, eclipsing the pan-faces of our precessional discs, veins thickening and sex-blue on dull dusk, orbit after orbit, dance upon dance.

To hell with the halos, driving the tubby flocks of bleating killers on patrol. At last the final Mother comes, stuck and bristling with medical knives. Our abortion, her crown, with flowers gathered in her roadside haze, covered from hair to feet in a painted, gauze delirium-- her murder shroud fucked on and fucked open, scouted and probed and groped, pinched and pinned and splattered and stabbed; a traumatic insemenation zombie, pregnant with shock force. We watch our Mother die, there in the lilac bushes, still bleeding out.

Dancers on a dark horizon, we harmonize in sympathy-- in the intimate, mutual dismemberment, procedural forms echoing the black bodies blotting out the chains of stars with curved blades; extensions of the limbic will. We are entropic surgeons. The first sutures, beginning to tug shut the purse lips of artifact freedom-- to conceal ourselves from the chugging maul of the great wheel, ache with life.