Harsh Talcum of the Abyss

He taught bleakness to crawl. Then he thought his accordion could dismantle everyone’s cherished ideas regarding the cosmos, self and identity. In this he was mistaken, though such an act was amplified through the sour, green moons of Paris. Tactically, he was the proverbial pictogram stuck between spinning reptile discs. His raw absinthe dreamed nightly of kick0starting the apocalypse, and indeed his heels began to bear all the earmarks of the much-prophesied arrival of navy-blue archangels programmed by Jehovah to write erotic sonnets. A fluorescent puddle was no good to him. Steaming plates of alterity would have been of even less use. What he needed was for glass pavilions to suck all comprehension from his innards, and this would have happened had the car doors not locked themselves spontaneously But such was his luck. He could peel post-Einsteinian mathematics from the gated now just by snoring. he could steer a tank with his diction even if you taped him to a shaman’s glistening throat muscles. And yet, even the slightest hint of a deformed halo would send him into a blazing legislative fury. He called everything names, and when he ran out of names, he called them numbers, and when he ran out of numbers, he called the police. They gave him a lucrative, fact-finding tour of hunger and adrenaline in exchange for everything he knew of zoology, and off he went again, railing spools of low budget algebra to eyes hammered in like nails, some of which he had to hallucinate in order to meet his quota. In the end, he expired with a pair of ghostly Air France Concordes etched on his tongue, the pockets of his coat flying through the lonely corridors of time. Sadly, this harsh talcum of the abyss served as the only designation on his tombstone.