Her Brand Of Genocide

She still shimmers on my flesh

Black keys clutched to a cocaine heart

The rueful dimension, another heavy, distorted slab of bass dissolves all evidence of her passage on the screen. There's definitely something reptilian about her, the way even her face seems ready to pounce with inhuman quickness on the oneiric muttering sweetly, inchoately, to thin slices of youthful skin. The advance intelligence reports from our agents out west have been eerily accurate, as if they had witnessed her brand of genocide many, many times before.

Graffiti scrawled quickly onto the question of whether a submarine can blossom into a whole world or not...

The diamond-encrusted sphinx embedded surgically in her charred tongue has become arrogant. "Go away, I'm trying to think, you human bitch! I'm not a pile of animal meat at your call 24-7, I need my downtime!" The glittering, swirling lights acquire a subtle hue of purple haughtiness before replacing the hairs of perception concealed in the folds of her thick but strapless dress. Rivers of molten money watching this exchange nervously from the corner shadows just wince their autobiographies without acting as a window onto the entire cortex.

We dragged her, kicking and screaming away, from the advancing blue stripes, bodies mangled horribly and strewn beneath the zero of martial sex, muscular legs, murderous clouds of poison gas. Semi-literate turbulence vomits the worst genes she had been storing beneath her tongue all over the floor. They have forgotten how to slip in and out of the eye's stinging language. Eventually, though, their demise was recorded and cheered by those of us who had become sick and tired of living as ghosts amidst the polyphonic yawns that created and sustained us. Her psychic attack was the intestine of a demon, the pineal gland rendered paranoid forever and collaborating with the clink of spirits frozen online.