Ed Scissor

Leviathans linger in the gestures of elders and daydreams of youngers via simulated murmurs.

Chain letter accounts retell the moments before, during and after returning to surface.

The difference between what you thought you had witnessed and the elemental forces of SUPERNATURE.

One steely skyline tattooed by the best of the universe sent to persuade us.

Connections constellate in repetitive mantras and Gregorian phrasings.

The true currency had not long jolted upwards and outwards between darkness and light in steep altercations.

Hiding deep within collected arrangements of naïve drawings and surrealist paintings;

Are supercomputers predetermining every movement we make, be it actual or fake, via crude interfaces.

Truly the most magical slump, heavens above; the body has no place to go but below.

Forbidden french kissing the centuries up, inexplicable growth, breathing life into stone.

Seabozus return, boy what a tantrum, electric and water currents in tandem; clouds over valleys speak, slow connecting peaks, HUGE UNLEARNING SURGE.

A series of extraordinary thuds. The planet on drugs. We weren’t ready to wrestle the flood.

gigantic kaiju*

inelegant landing*

Introspective look

Rooftops loosen open up

Tile and timber elope

One by one

Then all at once

Demystified

Unmagnetised

The saddest roar

Magic rocks are taking off

Humming in blue quietude

Uninheriting the wind

And we have no response

Wallowing in servitude

The SUPERBLOOM shall move all dirt and dust

And leave no trace

Hopeless like a hand drawn map to an underwater home

For those no longer on earth.

You were right, we were wrong.

It is not what we thought.

The impossible task of unseeing the fall, unbreathing the air, one last push, one last pull, a half dozen flutters at most, no breath left to catch, eyelids reluctantly folding, eyelashes stutter and close so slowly the very last time they won’t touch.

And in that final blink you are moving swiftly through the spirit world, surrounded by great shifting patchworks of oily colour, 10,000 miles per hour, through tunnels of iridescence, bronzes and golds, until the colours slowly blur and fade to black, as you pass, through the permanent pitches of hell, the extraordinary hands of below.

The sacred round.

The oubliette.

The trephining left him unwell.