i’ll ill

feversick transmissions collect in the forebrain, spice the tongue, warp-wrap the carny-mirror mindeye. he coughs and a book is rattling in the back of his throat. they are worried he’ll infect them with an idea. semiotics coughed into the back of throat, hawked into the anti-clockwise swirl of the flush.

he wishes he could bring the temperature down; the fan centre rotates and all the attendant satellites dance around like a dischordant ballet. spinning tops ready to lapse out of their orbits. where an understanding of gravity becomes a truth of trajectory, and if we stretch it out along a straight line might just become a ballad of ballistics.

hitcrack the interrobang intrusion through the skull-wall into the meat truth of the innerspatial. the gallery is cracked like a crystal ball dropped to the tiled flaw. it’s a chess game already won somewhere by someone who reaches back through time to move the peaces.

he has medicine filtering through him, interrogating the random snatches of syntax that seem like questions but are really spiralviral kaleidoscope spins on the telescope we’re using to understand the still heart of the jazz.

the pestilent touch is a phonecall away. heat reiterates itself in different notes that clash with each other and make an odd music glissade on the surface of the skin like sweat.

‘there’s a switch.’

he fumbles about inside his rolodex ribcage searching for the apple that spent so long lodged in his throat. he pulls the stalk and that knowledge grenade blooms like an infinity of overlapping universes condensed into a single word. heal is the purging utterance. heal is the architect of the backwards forwards reach of the church of blind incantation. and he has written a spell to make him well again.

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