Holy war. A rolling war covering the holes and orifices. The war is submission. They get off on it, over it, over us all. The boys will piss in the deep graves as instructed. Crawl off to the sewer that has been reconstructed by the servants you have forgotten about. Who will save the hot babes in the bowels of the earth and all its hospitality suites?
My sentences can't compete with the screamers. The prayer towers were predicted. Their wheels and rays increased the harvest. The blue screens of Earth flickered.
Halo of heat. Dirt in their wounds. The uncovered head glaring. Night waves. I can't stop blogging it. Sleeping apart during the gloom. For cool's sake. A queasiness of being. Stop the images.
Bus gut and the tubular coffin of granulated fire. And the woman who lost all her limbs, rolling. That’s faith for you. Mystery bag man, rummaging and muttering his agit-prayer. He is replaceable kit.
I'm writing a mediated script. I'm a conscripted mediator. With an advantage of remote control. The liquified moment of exposed organs and the scream that comes out of the chest like a special effect. You can’t believe it's you.
Helpline is a deadline. The down line is dead. Trudge on the dead rails.
No looking. Just don’t stop.