It Tastes Of Sour Jazz

He is chewed fingernails, bloody cuticles, he is gum disease, he is fidget, St Vitus Dance. He makes them all uncomfortable. He has been smoking powdered baby for a week non-stop and the painted clouds that thought bubble above his head are nightmare landscapes of imagined futures and pasts that smell like rotten meat. No one wants him to detox because this slow reveal just shows what a little pustule of poison he is. They want Clancy to be dead already.

She is a different matter. If boners were iron filings she would be the magnet making them dance. Everyone loves her. She’s been smoking Kahlo, but she has a drift cloud screen that pumps out her visual poetry in a much more aesthetic way than he has ever been capable. So you ask, what the issue? They love her and they hate him – seems obvious what they should do, doesn’t it? Except that Butler loves Clancy, and she somehow pulls something good out of him that nourishes her in a way that no one else has been able to do.

Vampiring the two of them, drawing all their energy from the interactions of these two pulsars, it is kind of fitting that as failure rears its ugly gap-toothed head above the parapet and takes an arrow in the eye, that the leeches should suffer as much as the principal actors.

It tastes of sour jazz. The plant that is growing weed-like in the petrol-rainbowed puddle is a fractal challenge that creaks out of a cocoon of melody into a tottering architecture of feedback and electronic blips. This whole place made sense – the maps led where you wanted them to, and then they started to disagree, just like that. How does location break down like that? Walk in the direction of one place and find yourself somewhere else.

Get enough people taking enough different drug-lines and the harmonic frequencies start to attack some deep crystalline structure of reality and pull it apart. The hologram was stroking – left and right rupturing apart and one side going spastic and lazy. Things just didn’t look the same.

Clancy as an old man is sat there writing an elegy for Butler, and he remembers her as Dorothy Parker speaking through a vision of Snow White. He was Bukowski wearing a Bogarde mask. He is thinking of a rare moment where they were sober. Because he writes it down, and because the new dreaming vampires read it and incorporate it into their philosophy, his nostalgia inadvertently saves the world.

It tastes like cotton candy. It smells like vanilla. There is a hummingbird marking time as it drinks nectar. This is the word in random motion.

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