BaronZobops

What is this place? There are no stars. It is the after and before, it is here and it is there. A dream dreaming. That tree... It rises from the dirt, a great ash colored thing of bark that twists in its eon agony. Black leaves sway in century old breezes upon branches like gnarly arms and fingers. The rider sees the woman naked behind the vines which cling to her. They are infected with thorns and she bleeds gentle lines of red through the cracks down into the roots. Her eyes are closed and she looks longing, sadness grips the eternal sleep. This is the nightmare. He is not breathing anymore, he is awake, the rider can again move. A deser

in through the mist the portal or a door white washed but acrylic shine behind or before or beside darkness ad infinitum. Step-talking the brainy somnambulist with his hand around the saffron knob worn-out infused with chemical menace huffing paint behind the schoolyard emerged beyond it but cannot remember opening it but must have now or later or once. The mist says no or go or no-go quoting Bell and Kochen and Specker and lingered whole against the slit of the bottom and the side drained into reality or whatever darkness is; reality or unreality or the undiscovered space between. Or nothing. The walker in the dream did not care. The door s

The rider sees the cabin; he sees the creak of its door; he sees the shadows that pour in from the lightless house astride the evening star that sets across the field. Cotton, he thinks of home and weevils, sprawls like swollen finger tips or the alien reach of the earth in the backdrop. He hears nothing; so he dismounts. A place unmarked by his map so left abandoned by civilization and the great web of humanity that came with the telegraph wires and would leave with the atomic bombs he knows nothing about...save what was read in Revelations. He hears, not far, the whine of his appaloosa once he enters the home. The kitchen is cold and the

There was a sound from up above like the howls of a wolf pack and he looked to the ceiling of the fog. It's pale, familiar shape starting to dissipate at last. All around it faded into nothing. He felt a chill that transcended the flame. Before night he at last was able to see the clouds of this place. They were ashen and he saw a heatless white sun hiding beneath the smoky veil. Around him there was nothing but forest as far as the eye could see. Until the darkness came. It spread across the gray sky like spilled ink and the land was devoured. He remained a lone beacon in that terrible blackness. A burning will to live in a place suffocated

He sneezed into a fast food wrapper and it’s as disgusting as it sounds. Outside conflagrated lights burn against brick high rises. The city was dark. Summer had come to Fortinbras. Calgary James Hartfield was too young for his job as a private dick and it was part time and worse he had a profound vision of his death in a small, dispersing rain cloud early that day. Stars blanketed the horizon in his mind but light pollution had killed all that and he saw nothing but the wild dark metal of the firmament. The measure of a man’s life, he thought, had to be how much he had gained and how afraid he was of losing it all in a single mo

the thing, the misery is sought but would be exchanged quite gladly for ignorant bliss you would not repair more than a band-aid and see it stripped, then again to bleed because i do bleed these things, these horrid things which others love like eccentric, distant tragedy where upon the trash they see the white cotton; red told not to touch; but the stains look like butterflies melting on a stove