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We dig up conscience-tunnels, pluck the play-flower of present choice for fun, run aground, past this dimly lit, though not to be underestimated, stage, and open door upon empty door, to nothing, for the lights are a pulse flickering in the perceptual per
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111200
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Her fever spreads through lines of a plaid mini, over burnt milk, darkened to yellow. Fingers explore fabric folds up and into the lost dimensions of logic.
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Ships tumble, cars crash, horns gulp water, bombs burst up from the ground in a halo of screams.
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The night is a jelly slosh, a fertile rumble, a rhumba, black and seeping, thick. An arm rises.
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