ApocGolem

People tell me that birth is beautiful, so obviously they have not seen the act. I watch your expulsion as one rubbernecks a pile-up on the freeway: the winking eye peels open, dilated as if begging for more light; the wrinkled mouth peels back her lips, regurgitating thick blood around the dome of your head. She gags once more, and you are heaved out, screaming fury and terror at the frosty unknown surrounding you. I swallow down bile, and I know I will be celibate most of my life.

His feet twist and skip, spinning at his waist's direction. Right steps, left slides, and his gravity follows. She sways and he struggles to anticipate. She presses her back to him and sets his hands to her hips, a guiding light for his clouded eyes. Slowly she sways, left, right, forward, back, steps in a new dance. His bones twitch and jerk, then liquify as he slips into her rhythm. Fear flies with each basso bash, until the weighty might of music and her pheremonal form are all that are left within him. None now can say where he ends and she begins. One movement, one thought, one friction. One dancer.

There is no summer here, though it is warm. There are no seasons at all, no green parks or blue waters. There are windows here, walls and a ceiling, but no doors. There is a desk of polished cherry wood, and a mechanical pencil, and a lime green notebook. The Walls are devoid of color, pitch black to absorb the myriad colors that radiate from memory. He sees them dance in choreographed patterns, and writes them down by wavering candlelight in the music of the mouth. The heavy scent of the desk's varnish absorbs and incorporates other odors, twisting them up his nose when he envisions a daisy, or old soap, or rotten fruit. There i

Scratch. The distant grind of tiny stones across pulpy wood leaves behind a leaden line.  The shape is unset, and its focus broad as the spectrum. It holds all meanings in its basket. Scratch. Two lines connected produce an intersection. It swiftly sifts through meanings and discards those unfit to pursue. Scratch. Another line, and another.  A curve, a crescent, a point all follow behind. The contents of the basket dwindle to a handful of select truths. Scratch. With a final stroke powered by the gods, shape is granted full purpose.  Its meaning shines a thousand suns, and its interpretation cannot be ambiguous. It reads: (

You provide food for the drums, banging and throbbing banquets into my brain. The percussions are crisp greens, clearing the path--zen meditation in my mouth. The angry pulses are the ruddy meat, raw and ghastly and potent. The soft thrums are sweet tarts, a sugary film haunting me in their wake.

Does she travel in silence, or can she absorb sound through the skin? A supersonic sponge, eating voices, perhaps digesting them right beside the salad she had for lunch.

I pierced the veil once, in a great gully nestled in the belly of the forest, a distended navel of sand and stone. Higher up, at its north end, chuckling waters pool and spill over the craggy face of the Old Crone. The leaves of the trees atop the banks shimmer and wave "Hello!" as if greeting me for the first time. I realize I do not know their names, and I am ashamed. I set myself about the task of climbing the bank to ask them. The bank is easily thirty feet high; on any other day, my ego would stand atop the bank to decree the task impossible, and cast me down with heavy stones. Today is not any day.  Today the tyrant has been

They fightin us freaks that feed on raw meat The nectar drips like a heady ass mead Sip and lick till the sweet makes you sick Leaves the belly coated with taint like an oil slick When next you drop a brick it rips like razorwire Till you need to eat the heat and your breath sets the sky on fire Only atoms split will free the fearsome pressure Then you can go ahead and bend them bars at your leisure Phasers set to stun, no fuck it!  He's got a gun! Zap his ass before he's even got a chance to run Then pick his bones clean, devoured line by line The black tar hole in your belly leaves no trace or sign I'm crushin skulls waitin on m