Lode, the waining trembles of sentient orthonauts fly! What dreamy and miasmic turnbulls wait in the gnarly wings? One treads not on such dainty, delicate tomes. The festooned reliquaries grumble and hum with unsanitary expectations. One does not suffer such imbrications lightly.
– Stout heart! Fondle knot the tender eggs of men! Your unfiled nails might scratch and tear and summon sanguine leakage upon your hands and the earth between your feet!
Crimson fluids gush from fresh rent flesh and congeal into wrens and rooks and other winged beasties. Clear water, fecund with womanish stuffs wash away the evidence, but the roque remains. Do not fear the ixpremiad, but embrace it. Make it your own. Color it in scents of pastures and loose-clothed mornings like the marmalade of the Sun, sweet up front and bitter at the back.
– Centurion! Do you heed the warnings of your sister’s mother? What works for her falls flat for you. Sitting in static at the foot of your birthing bed, Time’s gondola and gambit conspire to dongle to the status quo. Such translations rarely do justice to the anticipation and afterscent of desire’s placenta.
©2017 Stuart Dummit