(no subject)
Set Liar Jones
In many nights a reddening will not seem so sacrificial, the transactions floating about shadowed hairs, rising feebly from a shaking form, penumbra shuddering in the cocaine quiver. It happened just so that on the futures 21st sigh, it was a man named Jones who lied the night beyond its fragments; a joyous cat killed, men and women on couches, eyes drifting through a head of gelatin, squinting at each electric weed fish, lazy in their reflected moaning, ultimately: talons gripping the softest of fabrics and murder. Jones couldn’t see, at least not on the nights as black as they were apt to reveal forums upon steeples, angry waves smashing the lattice cap, forcing cabbages down three and easy while collectively longing for the locker dissipation that revels in a cool tiling job (never patterned, never). Fortnights passed and Jones merely laughed, sweeping the upper floors dry, a corporate glass heaven shattered while the poor mans dirt scattered in endless parades of degeneration and the spent oil of grimed penitence.
Sets lichen upon a mortuary, it was no different to the Jones victim hidden in the blue thudding, shadowed moaning sliver islet, apart of time, a part of steppings, patterings, plummetings, sickening lurches that merely served to spill the crowning tear aborted and unknowing. On the eve it would seem as though gradient lusted for alien esteem, soaking a person through the very sidewalks, a specter mezzanine incorruptible and filthy, the spider-weave endless on its surface, ticking eyes clicking paths forever inward up the level of red, red, red, red mortuary sophistry. In that sort of a slide any bonework lover would be inset upon with the creeping whirls, a bloody synartesis, suppository delightfully miscarriaged. Their hollow groanings forever a fossil in the air, lying steeply on his coat, dusted gratefully with the substitute laughing: a tremulous finger glide, picking the teeth out, now the intestines, perhaps a jaw upon two for coupon effluvium.
Then the day ran, bleeding its streak nature a grip on the world face which sought men for its imaginings, endless and grotesque, and Jones happened upon his girl:
“Well, Synthera, what is it today!” He offered.
“A forty drop in lips for lock, nothing at all in this heap,” her indefatigable grayed luster could be spoken for, perhaps not so much the fog frame her rapid breaths muddled.
“I think its quite the time, already, my dear,” the ineffable skeleton sodden folds proffered.
“Indeed, it is so.”
“A likening of whalefish and sea flowers, may it so be.”
“But its such a sudden thing, what of all I see!?” Panicking now, she hardly knew the depths of which Jones couldn’t fathom.
His gloved love was lost in the eternal aether about her throat, sticking to those soft lines, sable murk spewing into chasms never meant for a mind. And her head split, and his grin likewise rained the sentiment glaring down from salts, breads, worries borne of a rough wood. And what a terrible, foetid wood! Darkened hat slid ajar, righted on the half swipe, dreamy ink filling the soil with the story, Synthera’s foreign body a mess, doll in the obsidian, iced moon. Jones made his way across the square, the city of cities dreaming a dirge, pleading a break in the empathy of lies. Jones knew it all, it was all he knew, all he could do. Jones knew, quite simply, that he was through. The set vanished.
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Well this proves I can't write more than a page (at all).