I read of a man that lived in a poisoned lake for many months, sailing on mattresses covered in white algae. He feasted on sweet gills, mushrooms—the spores breeding in his own crusted scalp. I dream of him, my happy cousin.

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I sleep on the outskirts of the city beyond the graveyard baking in the southern sun, songs and disease passed from mouth to mouth like drunkard urine, a male prostitute covered in white streaks of mercury—a paradise of meat. The sun is a blood clot on fire.

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I crawl through hibernating larvae and peer inside a keyhole. I watch an alien undress. Pieces of green mineral removed from shoulder (clasps a goblet of panacea). Sometimes at night I burst out laughing beneath injurious stars that begin to move and condense into a scream.

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The monumental cages of dogs that learn to love the taste of human liver: their shrivelled, starved bodies regulated only with the rhythm of aching hunger, an eternal sadness. I swim into stomach bile and hot breath rising from slobber—their patient mouths.

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Symbol of a white rose, the bloodletting of foxes. A crowd stands in silence before the shit-caked feet—clown neck snapped backwards, hung from a noose in the marketplace. Orphan skulls crashing open like marbles across their tiny, outstretched hands.

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I listen to terror in the air through an antennae glued to the spine of a blue angel. I listen to countless prayers of a city—the wonderful, dazzling act of treason taking place in the next room upon silent and obedient furniture. A fascist married inside a wardrobe.

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I am a machine of bees, selfish creature—tear off a wing and hold it to the light like an amaranthine flower (yellow antichrist soaked in effluvium, beginning to cool and harden in a bathtub). The smell of a favourite corpse and fluids one must pass through like electricity.

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I bury myself in silence heavier and heavier as time remains, sleepwalk and eaten inside red mountains—graves open and operated upon: surgeons dressed as vultures, their beaks smeared in cherry blood. A butcher whistles from his doorway, mouth a perfect circle.   

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Where to go now but into that mouth? Down through the lips and past the white teeth. His terrified heart chased without escape. He lets out a scream. He writes a name in blood. The world has ended.




*

Matthew Kinlin lives and writes in Glasgow.

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