Flashing II

Over, He Said

Dragonflies on the appalling bridge, rifling through memories, down the river, drowning aloud, charismatic variance in the normal spacing of the scattering in the corner. Charles syllabizing, the quest for meaning on the board, the interstices, the varicose veins of Utopian vigilance, the afterglare of prescience. Terrifying, vagrant infantry, calibrated vineyards, pulmonary night.

Loncito Cartwright woke from fitful dreams, sweat pouring, black sun blazing beneath the talkative good friends of midnight. No spacing is normal, no webs condensed, no reveries beyond insertions of edited styles. Carry me over, he said. We withdrew into the confessional corners, wording the missives, accelerating the ghosts, validating the passports to hell.

Four faces of hatred, four faces of misinterpretation. Loncito staggered past his life, the double eagle, every twenty seconds the downladders of misery. Loncito: “Tell exactly, not nearly, not hopefully, not patiently, not without guile. And tell now.”

Knowledgeable, friendly, digital—null and void. Subtitles in the dark. Whispers in eddying doom.

Loncito: “Calcify. It grows if you try. It grows in the measures.”

“It doesn’t stay up. It’s escrow. Beyond the pale.”

Loncito: “Vertiginous.”

In Norristown, we stopped for the ten major things. They had eight; two were lifted. Seven minutes earlier, we could have scored.