In the ends, there are always
wordls grown. Words drown the wogs. Worgs
in the wordwars. Word warlocks, with jingling rings of keys. Seven rings
of keys in the jingling circus. Ring racks of ringers, ruining the
wordrains. Words drain in the rain, out with the bathwater. It's raining
bathwater this morning. There's foam collecting in shoals about the
drains. Every few moments, a fetus crashes to the ground, then inches
slowly away like a snail. It's raining amniotic fluid out there this
morning. The sky's water broke. Bits of disgusting tissue can be seen
falling in all directions in sporadic chunks, the wine-dark offing,
curtains of green-black like meconium.
Flue erections in fluidirections.
Stand Irect. Cavemen standing with
erections. A caveman's uncircumcised shaggy penis. On the womb beaches.
Wombs floating in the surf like jellyfish bladders.