It sat floating in the liquid abyss, a great glob of bone and earth and grass and hair and things dripping. It did not spin. It did not bob to and fro, though a steady stream of haunted wind went in and through it, both moaning against the other like a jazz man blowing through Buddha’s petrified throat. You wouldn’t hear the sound unless your ears had been initiated into the Side Ways. And you wouldn’t dare ask to be, even if you knew how.
There are these things that only exist in words, in the ocean of meandering thoughts, things we can only describe with absurdities, things that sit invisible until we pepper them with poetic intent. And the use of describing an impossibility is in the taming of the brain into accepting that the assembly line of language that is constantly humming can have a wooden shoe made of the signifier “wooden shoe” tossed into the ticking innards to splinter.
When they find me without skin, look in the folds of my curdled brain for the knife.