Shadow Language

This fridge arrives with a toothache, and the dialectical fright squad was chop-licking with overwet prosody. It is poor form to be rich and our canines are oversharpened while our molars have ground down to battlefield dust.

The government of alchemists — seeking admixtures of lucre-baiting consciousness — without tongue, without signifiers, within a sangfroid winning way are lost in a ruthless world dominated by amateur dentists. 

These burial lands are infested with cicadas charging oppressive rents — their gestures the  shadow language of cargo cults and trepanators. 

Is that a hole in your head, she says.

We are fractured and without shelter.  All exhortations are moot, but with a side of mediocre marmalade. Huckleberry. 

Accept this gilt logorrhea as a guilty pleasure averted. We’re a surly lot full of liquid loquacity misplaced. This is irreconcilable, but it is nonetheless. Nonetheless. 

This is the twilight of empire!

Look, it’s lunchtime!

(Insert appetite here)

What I’m Reading:

In the end we knew what was ahead. 

Postapocalypse was our present tense.

— Alison C. Rollins / “Springtime Again”