Temporary sites Fiat Lux leisurely avowed concern over as Friday's prey approved provision legislated for in Emerald City.
Entering her new carriage, addressing domestic mechanisms, dialogues with her she-wolf, Bridget's hands were below her wrists as her warrior pumped oil into sheep. She knew how to stand still as liquid within the boundaries of the Swastika fields. She ate a lamb, and promoted a defiant incorporation of the 12 sigils' plants' solutions.
The farmer offered up fresh fruit and vegetables in a tin decorated with depictions of the 12 sigils. His hammer had sustained communality for the tenants of his land; those party to their allotment.
As Bridget served dinner to her neighbours she was said to have entered a 'dereliction cycle'.
Drawing towards him one of the local officials who had begun on duty imbibing a flask of gin, the farmer didn't want to get into any long descriptions of how a terrier chased some pigeons.
Bridget had been absolutely starving, on her back, 'Nature's cause'. She crossed her fingers. She rubbed her eyes. The meta-narrative drew rapidly towards over-arching conclusions. Yet she was still entitled to some pedantry or other.
Hyperion was dedicated to preservatives, but he was outwitted by a studiously mysterious reference to having heart. He and his heart, architexts of reckoning, had designed a green wound but the staircase was laced with the gallant birth of silence in some far-flung heyday, and at the top in an open geometrical doorway, Hyperion had let the harboured realm of prehistory bring forth the quested. Honoured by the natural order of the cycle of the seasons, when his cupid's arrow landed, the Society for the Utilisation of the Real Dimension (SURD) turned to scour the ceremonial pit, and a horseshoe festivity took shape.
Going through the geometrical doorway (repeating forsaken motifs), Hyperion went tracking conversations and got an instant reaction. Echoed in the observatory, where once that Hierophant and his mad enchantments reflected upon rasps of infinitude, the meter was signifying tombs. What piercings of the heart! Tiny mirrors sewn.
In the observatory his mind relaxed, ripening its tributes' ornateness, dedicated to filling up vats of prophecy from which media moguls drank as if they were vast tits of milk. Hyperion's anti-catastrophe theory inspired reverence for an unforgotten acculturation theory-practice. He cured amnesia without a shadow of a doubt.
'Why do you never fit in?'
'Flesh and blood are figments.'
At the Quadrature, a chimpanzee aspired to the afternoon's arcane dramaturgy, oiled like an effigy hatching a toad.
No more: that person is interesting.
A mess of unwritten carousels, jester-like, gypsy warnings of crestfallen plots, were in the mood of routine desperation. With a lesson for the sham priests of the SURD, jousting a crock of torsos, shoes newly shined, the gamblers reposed near the empty dispensers, their noses. Visually, the effect was marvellous. Crowned with feathers of taffeta, with skeletal diagrams at the cafeteria, the cartoon, hod-carrying, crescented, carpeted, guttersnipe attitude of berserk profiteers:
'A raven is a methodical bird, but at no time can be added to the inventory of common ailments, nor spectral fomentations or academic theses. For it has flown.'
Hyperion hummed. Bayoneting family seductions and feasts, that spent, parasitic regenerate swiped the hem of mirth's virtue, looping through the waning of scythes contrary to the tongs. Like a luminous aperture he faded into the rainbow-coloured, scaled armour of a white flea yawning at a furnace.
In this choir of sheet metal, the cipher was subtly purged and let loose to run amock in labyrinths.
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A.A. WALKER is the author of LICENTIA [Thin Man Press, 2014]. Other work has been published by literary magazines and websites including Great Works, Cauldron and Net, Muse Apprentice Guild, Prakalpana Literature, Carnivorous Arpeggio, and Sidereality.