The eighteen types; half physical, half special. Puppet-boxes and stripped behaviours and class made shapeless. Identities weaponized against one another in the sick games that guided their captors' amusements.
Languages without notations, grids in nature. Invisible cathedrals built from shapes outside of shapes, and no rules to be learned.
Cries in the night and helpless hands. Minds without memories save the warm sea, new paths and all else that was lost so easily.
Pixel noise, puppet-boxes, static skies with chips inside, a poly-low-res auto-fake and so much more that nature could-not make.
A, B, O, positive and negative. The beat through the veins, the stain fade-redding on the pavement, and the hot soak that fills the heart.
A dead channel awaiting a lost station. And a town awaiting a city. A maze awaiting an exit and the sleeper without a self...
Mews and soft purrings, the hunt of dim-light vermin, footstep-followed pawsteps that came in without the city's consent.
No disguises, nothing to pretend. Clear-colors, flat grey models without paint and the form that dreams of being filled.
Smallpox vaccines, red mess, ice-psycholy, lysergic acid diethylamide and all manner of leaves and stems and caps in capsules.
Killed into souls always awaiting bodies and hushed voices in an vacant room. Flyleaf between the cover and the page, white, white.
Never the mother but always the "other". The sand-down of that hourglass figure made by each day only a more wicked widow.
Cut-outs, paste-on posters, mounted glowframes. Shadows drawn onto the floor to fool the 2D eye, and the surface of a hole.
Human hands, human heads with their faces, legs and fingernails and upright spines. A world made in their image; the destroyers.
Light radiant enough to blind the blindfolded, bright to fade each page of every book, and sear the seas to ash. Not burning but pure.
Plaster molds and plastic houses, prefabricated shams and bags of surplus meat, the machine whose only plan is obsolescence.
The mud that coalesces with the dirt that it makes wet, paints that mix to one. So too is the self lost hard within the callous frenzy.
Bullied too hard and pushed to the brink. Justifications and love letters that can't take back the shallow pits and trashed graves.
Nothing to say, feeling nothing and unable to be touched. Empty space that descends in every direction, endless, without boundary.
The fever that only rises. The mattress camps and the spewing hordes. A cough that persists and the stickiness of hands.
The hour is getting longer than you'd normally stand so still for, but you can't stop thinking...
They used to be so different, this used to be so different. And while they're not quite "extinct animals" when you don't have to travel far to see their inanimate puppet-bodies, the way that they're brought to animation in cartoons and t-shirts and video games can't be called a life, either...
But you could say to the writer anyway, you're the one with a sick worldview...
The wind grows colder, and the slow, bass-heavy music from a nearby parked car ceases.