Coal-black lung drips under cloak. Aren’t they swell in the swollen summer? And aren’t they living?
The light overcomes the house and makes everything become transparent even the earth and I walk over to it and everything shatters like glass and I fall through the glass and feel glass cutting into my skin.
Windows like to watch, too. Maybe they don’t look it, but they are the most accomplished voyeurs in the world of architecture and modern designers don’t quite know what to do about it. Perhaps a change and/or abolishment of all laws of decency indecently forced on us since the advent of the wheel would fix the problem.
The black door expands, becomes bristly brown porcupine fur. It lengthens and pops. Becomes liquid and gas. It opens the way.
Something then exits the front door as a sludge. It comes down the hill and it covers them up to their necks smothering like molasses or a cold thick honey and they remain trapped there suspended and barely able to move.
A dung beetle’s ball soon rolls into view, swiftly followed by its concerned beetle parent. Dogs run by, barking joyfully. Snakes sprout like roses.
Collective text / Megan Leach, Steven Cline, Casi Cline