Or better yet, both superimposed

Feeling particularly frisky and having been born in foul moonlight amidst the rancor of heat and the solitary investiture of a love shorn largesse — and because of this tainted spite — he bears a maggot face full of youthful miscarriage. A little awkward. A little stagy. Full of concocted melodrama and a derangement that recalled O’Connor’s Misfit: No pleasure but meanness. It’s no real pleasure in life. . .

Huh?

Despite your emerging self, despite your arc of transcendence, you fear there may be something to that bit of causticorioum. You bind your feet and clench you teeth and fling yourself at the open window. Your defenestration keeps you youthful looking — never mind the Botox. Your wish for a properly dramatic soundtrack to your speeding descent is fulfilled with shards from twelve-tone symphonies, something abortional from Berg or Webern — or better yet, both superimposed and played at once. This echoes from the left corner of the sky. 

Oh, the sky.

Oh, the street.

Here’s the top of a cab.

Headlong. Accordionesque.

A suppuration of madras lentils or a dal makhani — or better yet, both superimposed and manifesting (curiously) at once.

This is the movement of fear.

What I’m Reading:

All it took was for a lot of seemingly decent people to put the wrong person in power, and then pay for their innocent choice.

— Hugh Howey / Shift