by Rob Rice
Now almost satanically ugly men and women are holding phones.
With counterintuitive and unimaginably perverse grace their casual hands are like precision scaffolding for a jagged obsidian sculpture that primitive cultures starved in agitated pilgrimage to.
The sun drunk security flippantly cosseting the museumed Baetylus, counterbearing exactly the principal points of load share by some occult intuition of calculus.
Fat mauls turn out to’ve been machine reinforced at several structurally key places revealing once and for all engineering and clairvoyance as the two most natural things in the world.
Deft poise in stark, perverse opposition to every other performance of gait and gesture behaved by their bodies as they prance two fingers, silent like prey animals of the historical plain with their inborn acuity of posture and hoof placement.
They sit divorced from their lower bodies; stalk sending up whatever macromolecules it can hustle off of the overtime kidneys and liver.
Sour-sweet kidneys and bitter liver.
Receiving no thanks and no, no honoring of receipts as its shorts bunch and dampen, involved in strata of noplace.
Fabric wicking flu-green expellant, overfunded by woolgathering’s prolonged contact, as legs go sparkling numb, crossed.
Flip flops throttled indiscriminately between toes now protuberant-blue, between indistinguishable larval toes that will never steady walks through the markets in Fez as their globe holding captain flushes one page, one capsular phosphorescent ask, into synthetic nowhere in return for the next.
A three-year-old, body’s composition a strict mirror, with puffy ruddy salmon lips and translucent skin, shows a valley’s complete set of rivers on vein mapped knuckles, moving with a synovially permissive stomp as the dad theatrically behaves its stupefied disinterest.
Now the person prequel’s expressing itself, lunatic enthusiasm about a series of sweet biological nothings, elapsing habitually disregarded, though not so long ago were unconditionally indulged.