The shallow clatter of wind and bottle tops woke her to a draining Sunday dreaming.  She was riding the picture again, while the others gathered supplies from the dead city.  As she stepped under the shower, frozen fingertips traveled along her spine, water trickled down the light cord as her unusual axons tempted release.  Ice breaking over wasted cityscrapers, frosted crystalline Russian dolls carrying the precious photographs inside.  Two greenheads outside, sitting cross-legged, foreheads touching, rocking in synch – cables and sound methodically pouring from fluid smoking fingertips as she moved to her chemical position, clutching a glimmer of Reverie.  As she took the amphetadream jolt, the cavalryman logically beat the rhythm - the dancers’ bombs loading, coating the clouds with resonance, her fragile armoured wrapping paper. 

She twists away, a spiral of violet droplets passing a fleet of dancing brain cells.

(Or frogs – vision blurring – adjust depth of field)

 In the hidden picture she was standing with a boy, she was the colour whilst he was all greys.  Her crazy sweat was on, relinquishing the empty heaven virus – rhyming the silence in their bodies, all negative tones and freezing fingers.  Her melancholic doorway collected the shock melodies that fuelled the tribe.  Her heart would allow ghosts a dark fragrance to play inside.  Her body was a cyclonic sampled songbird.  The others were there, extracting the melody from spinal vapours in the grainy word (x-ray) supernova.

 More liquid throwaway skullfuck aesthetics.

 Her Tao kisses ware all they needed, they were so empty.  She required the supplies, the input, borrowed ingenuity from voodoo chemicals.  They came back to her as evening closed – sensors ravaged with crackling ruptures and thirsting for her reveries.

 But the music girl had vanished. 

Remixed by the dancers’ bombs, she was born again, naked, gathering the silent ghosts.

© 2003 Owen Pellow