The Frost Fayre of the Glory Hand

Just because it can’t be seen does not mean it wasn’t there. Cat scrape against improvised bird call and response. Jellyfish trails across the page this distance and the next will be one exploded whale.

Thrown carcass flying in great spattering chunks of white where one oily greased lump crashed down on a Cadillac now we won’t come back from that. All eyes on the birded-up flesh cross the road rambling man coming through; cheep gutter amp strapped to his back ass guitaring it around the marsh peninsular one cow looks up then carries on munch munch long horns. Now it’s toot toot portal opening but not by much stand clear allow for easy open access; that’s right easy does it we are now going inside the belly through the portal stepping over and under time. Indented earth colossal safe in victimhood; cumbersome in nose regard; that which is your strength.

In time the blubber floats to the dunes where the gulls have been irrevocably scared off.  Expressing likes and dislikes of the modern era. What moon eats are we having today; so, dust the watch sand it down to nothing? Notice the knocker of doors, the waking one’s just wrapped up past the blast core. Down in the frozen gully where sorrows lie down. Look backwards and up at the figure in the window, at the figure that is always at the window in frosted mizzle width furled ready tiger clawed wrong sided entombed in lichen. Mess of blubber. Containment of mass.