Alchemisland

Shock ignites the breaker board

Awakened at midnight, his impatient nixsynthesis

His fixtures enable him to realise the past

Smudges along the windows, barely discernible

He tends toward the room’s left-hand side

Souls snared by bright blazes; his cyclopean camera’s aperture repeeling itself like a cyborg orange

Gently tracing a blood stained lintel, his fingers visit the temple of his head

His thumb and forefinger stretched like a shark’s mouth from chin to brow

Three curled fingers resting against his nose, pleasantly blocking his right nostril

His breathing slows, the rise of his chest unseen beneath his chasuble

Which ran straight down his front and split at the crotch to curtain his thighs, like a hauberk

Faintly phosphorescent, the garment shed a shifting marshmallow light against the walls which made him think of chewing

He refocused, his comically expanding stomach like an alarmingly fast developing foetus

Traces of yesteryear, faint sensation, a tapping within the blood, feeling to emanate from the inner elbow

The crook and crux of things, the crooks the crooked floorboards creaking the windows cracked

He cycled through a library of morbid sensualities, archive of ancient death

Panoply of injustice, autostereogram of malicintent

Erotic harvesting of impossible knowledge, his mind pregnant with noisy signal

Swiping the expired air with two fingers he discharges impertinent vignettes 

He moves light as an alarmed raptor

Red thread of violent murder choking to him, which a canary would not sniff out

Images of arrest seize his consciousness, internal photo flashes which prompt external flinches

Times doubled over, the sheer variety of misconduct

Women chipped away at, poured over and gruesomely resculpted, as if they were woodcuts

Tending still to the left, as if labyrinthed, he stopped and started, harangued by the vividity of someone else’s recollections

His gift provoked uncomfortable questions, inclined to invite ire

Whose memory it was that he explored and could recall, as if his own

Balletesque transgression, artworks formed of blood, beyond what mere craft could summon

His odd eyrie suggested a higher order, a plotting of telemetries

There was thought and purpose in the frenzied gait of the victim

Mathematics and not mysticism, they said publicly

Behind closed doors, officious looking suits with long cave of wonder nostrils and quintuple-barrelled names nodded to slideshows of Akashic Records