[response to “Four at a time this person had wax in the ears…”]
Lumens liminalia. Crumpled where a hand made a sandwich of the illumination, not so gilded as the original illuminees, whose letters effloresced into crowns & kings & jesuswings, was the page the picture or the picture the rage? A vaporous stew of younger-than tales weltering gruesomely in its own sick, for it’s just a thing the body does; all snarking aside, whose fetal reek is illuming up this window? I’ll take another piece, please.
Extratextual texterrestrius. If we are pushed out, collapsed-face-up, maggoty-schnozz-first, detextualized from our graves, our weight grown sere and dreary, like half as much mangy mattress expelled into the sog and trash-fested gutters of the alley back doors, dark flexing lines of soot and grit treacling “unwanted” into the wrinkles and callused-into-anonymity fingerprints we swore by, our death mask this: look. No more eyes! Ex-spellsion resexed.
[read the response: “-exterrasexed-Jerumring trill intill…”]