the dog, the dog, he’s at it again

pain was something of a sophisticated trompe l'oeil.

spirals of smoke came from a hole in his chest. a loosely structured entity, clustered weird thing made of memories and matter, had been summoned to collect his fading, tired soul. he got stricken by the eyes before everything else vanished: several pairs of almond eyeballs leaking sulfuric fluid. rosin and light slowly mingling in one tight space. (certain eyes burned on their own, due to the excess of lamplights and fireworks and luminescent things that glow in the dark…)

any idea of how’d you got in here? yes. he doesn’t want to talk about it, though. as soon everything he kept inside tried to burst free, the glass cracked in horrific sounds and found a new twisted rhythm cradled onto silence. you are being seen. you are also weakest when you hide the knives and file the teeth. you have been hiding because you like the smell of dust. he sees the smoke and thinks of sunset. he watches the fire and longs for oranges. death is now the color of the wilderness. but how did it feel? how did it feel to taste the oranges?

a chorus of satyrs, ouzo-soaked gowns and hairy masks of animal skin, sings for the reminiscent audience: “he was made for being lost and always, always blessed! maybe that day could be today, unless solitude made him a fucking saint, huh?”