sanguinary waterfront

(prelude) A slaughteryard adjacent to this beaut clough, Ashen beams of a red giant stream from above. Infuscated waters, kinsfolk bleeding by the bay. Daughters quaver as whalers begin brothers to flay.

(start) The hierophant hanged by the riverbed glowering red, I hang at the gallous, wondering why I'm not dead yet. The forests heliotropic, sun melichrous, lands in mires. The hemp decaying, I try hold onto the wooden spires.

The lands in mires, barren with starflowers growing on the cadaverous soil varicolored lovat kneed toward the red giant that shines chrysochlorous amid black clouds gyrating into a mysterial gyre dextrose to my eyesight, resembling a razorblade afloat in the vacant skies with ever-changing hues above still waters of griseous seas.

Still hanging on, accustomed to being hung for aeons, my throat has become numb, limbs have become stiff. The volar surfaces strong, and stiffened by the midriff. Stifled by the scorch of the sun, have I become death?

With clenched fists, I hang on to this weathering wood of grease and celadon spewing fungi that reek of mire, seep through the buttoned cuff to my dextral shoulder dampened by constancy of stagnant inurement caused by the hanging upright with arms outstretched upward a fucking satellite I now realized... ‘A Mechanical God.’