contagion

It’s the fix of the dead eyed acolytes, it’s the spell check urgency of the unachieved corrections trailing the moment like train cars all rattling down the tracks, it’s the forced card emerging from the contingency of the gaffed deck. There’s no surprise despite the exclamation marks, no point outside this specific feeding frenzy.  Another fractured frame up, the picture never filled, the quest never completed. Only an anthem whispered in the night by all these chosen ghosts. Only a story you’re hoping would show.

There goes the scheme of sky, there goes the press of the stretch of shadows, another breath and counting. Wrong ears, wrong eyes, wrong time and wrong size. Once things start happening there’s never the right amount of telling, either ruckus or recipe, prophecy or hindsight ascendant. Creepy crawling along ley lines and reckless minds, insidious and vile in their fascinations. It goes slow, then speeds up, like Tina Turner rolling on the river. The allusion lingers despite the malingering of monsters.

There is little respite from the fray of this greasy gaze, slick eyed dicks and sickly lenses littering every map. Breathless voyeurs and their remote kin making hay with their obsessive limits as the days are shaped by action and its inverse. Smiles slick with glistening viscera upon souls only able to feel by first looking at the Joneses, the old plodding hierarchy of monkeys seen and done the only thinking humans really do. Swim with the current as the river transforms from rapids to waterfalls. As of this writing TLC’s prophecies remain largely ignored.