I am linking into your skull view. The surroundings, the landscape, hurt your skull in ways I feel. Your skull is unprotected by your flesh. I watch you smile and your skull smiles through, louder than you are. I watch the radiation blow through your skull like it isn't there. Like birds through trees. I watch your death unfold like a peony of heavy lead. A walkside head, hanged, under a limp sky trying to thunder, pregnant with lipids. Your skull is a glass house for my scrying. Your mouth a curved field of haptic control. I hack my way in, curious day and night, co-opting your piloting. I can see all around you in a kind of wasp vision. Everything is blue or red-shifted. There are only a few colors time machines know how to display. Blue veins or red veins, approach or recession; hyper, hypo-- black, brown, blue, red-- till white. A dog's mouth.
A dog's body, rotting there. You sneer at the fetid, brute wreck on the shore of your spiced air. Spiced dust rotting into your skull, through your glass nostrils. Test the bonds. A little grey cat hides in shadow under blue plastered stone stairs. A busy street with lots of idle men. You don't notice him today, but I do. You notice him tomorrow, when I'm asleep inside you, elsewhere in your body.
Your brows are funiculate awnings for the shops of sight. Commerce is raping your skull. You must cut the bonds against the sharpness of your brow. Do it when you clear the sweat from your face. You must see with your skull. This is my prophecy: Decomposition produces alcohol. Al. Co. Hol. A dog's body decomposing in partial ash. Half burned by shrieking children with knives. Its tongue is cut out. Babies crawl on glass, green, brown, blue, and smoked. The sharp sine whistle of polymer chains shriek suppertime under canopy; under billow, under sock and flag and flap. Test the bonds. Pull the cord tighter. Make me shudder. Make me cry. Watch my death unfold like a wasp in a pitcher plant. Your inner walls slick and sickly sweet. I keep smashing up and inside, choking you deeper.
I'm bigger now. Big as clouds. Your skull is a beacon I'm leaving behind. Sorcery is impermanence. It is acting within-as-if. You weren't watching the clouds. You weren't on your back long enough for them to show you. They blow ten ways at once, up here. Ten winds, I attend to their tillage like a rural estate. Permanent decline; exquisite declension. We ferment the tropopause like the rind on a dead dog's eyeball. We are the thrush and pink eye of warming syrup night prayers, doves gushing from robes in prickle heat, flash fire, flash flood, flash of genitals, now wide owl-eyed-- a lone "courrucou!" as dove becomes owl in scattered stovepipe trees, scattered legs, fly, fly! Wither the mental; wither the body, sail solar in the phallic boughs of blooded sight-- the skull's globe becomes cerulean, becomes gloved and gowned, planetary, and shatters into wings. Watch our death unfold as the cyclones proselytize the mountains. Test the bounds, the bonds, the binding!
None of the evidence of our deaths will survive. No bodies-- we carry our bodies away from our lovecrimes, accomplices of unwavering loyalty. Your skull is carrying your body through another cyclonic animation-- nested chains of tasks, terminal larvae. Root, tuber, tap, tumor, hive-- the skull feeds the heart its dramatized infection through a rubber chain, hollow in the middle. Terminal proboscis of genital inversion. I fade back into your fat; pack your skin like a roasting duck-- invader, warm and drooling, tossing in honeyed lymph dreams-- I fade back in to your bones and compile my findings. I look down at my hands during my report-- my ring finger is crooked like yours.
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