Fig at my feet,
I fumble
and fret
Imagining worlds where bubbles don’t burst,
Where the sun doesn’t
                      burn
                                  away
                         ­                       into nothingness.
Where the ghosts of ex lovers haunt their mothers and the emptiness doesn’t weigh heavy on my boots.
In the distance a white rabbit beckons me forward
To a home where you never leave and she never hurts.
A place to sit and trace the rivers flowing across the heart lines in my palm.
My life mapped out before me like reels and reels of ticker tape.
He will love you like no other.
He will hold onto you like the last leaf of fall.
He will kiss you like a wave to a boat, gently and fiercely, all at once.

I swallow the blue pill and wake to craters in my hands, hollowed out by time.
And in them I’m holding not a fig, but a mulberry fruit.
Thisbe and Pyramus’ lament from the gods.
I take a bite, a bitter taste.
Because in another life, I’d be with you.

Part 1

Upon this strange land we beheld organic structures of oblong intonation and mosaic, bio-organic design. The trees grew in irregular shapes, reminiscent of cones and gelatinous globules.

From the shadows, the honourable Nipslip Cockhantuu would now align with us! Nipslip Cockhantuu kindly offered to be our guide— our emissary!— upon entering the sacred village of Tok-Tuu. He would be a conduit, as it were, between us and the strange customs of the Tok-Tuu peoples.

Now we come closer to the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu, its minarets looming before us as in the dreams of secluded architects. Birds of vibrant colours soared above our heads and danced in strange formations, communicating in a language close to our own. Upon entering the village, Nipslip Cockhantuu granted us the honour of rubbing his dark ******* before the statue of the village's founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy. Nipslip Cockhantuu's ******* were soft and delicate, possessing a gentle, bumpy texture, very much like our own human *******.

Such wondrous celebrations ensued! And we knew our arrival upon this strange orb was a success, and that there would be many discoveries to be made!


Part 2

My companions, forlorn, left Remus Primoid— disappearing like vultures into a Sub-Saharan vista of the night— and travelled back to Earth, missing the the life they had once lived. I, however, had no friends or family to sustain my sentimentality and decided to stay upon Remus Primoid, within the village of Tok-Tuu, hoping to create a life for myself upon this distant world.

In my fifth year as a villager of Tok-Tuu I was permitted to learn the oblong mutterings: sacred chants created by the pre-eminent founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy, as he carved the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu and the hidden statue of Tei Romuloid-Papatemuloid, the mother of all life on Remus Primoid, a statue hidden within the depths of the ancient tombs, situated deep within lost catacombs.

The mutterings were as follows:

"Oblongboidoid, Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Boid, boid. Bashin-gore— I sustain my left foot. Boid, boid. Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Helmonstap-hablefoot, caress carefully."

Upon my learning of the sacred mutterings, I was initiated into The Society of Sculptors. Such joy I felt, in this, my fifth year, to finally be accepted, truly, among the people of Tok-Tuu!


Part 3

In the gloom of the Mindfear Caves, my chanting echoed throughout, and I could see the Seven Heads hover in the stagnant air as I uttered the Oblong Mutterings. In the wet darkness I could become one with the land of Tok-Tuu and its spiritual soul.

Having reached the culmination of my meditations, I emerged from the caves into the warm breast of summer, passing through Tok-Tuu's ancient orchard on my journey home. There, seemingly by fate, I met a gentleman who appeared to be in the process of painting the lifecycle of the Bulbous Tree, a tree which grew into full bloom and expired in the space of mere hours. He introduced himself as Outside-Inwards Jenkins— a descendant of Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy— and had been cast from the village of Tok-Tuu for practicing occult techniques in the manner of the forbidden doctrines, using these teachings in the creation of his artworks.

"You shall become my pupil, Earthbeing, and accompany me on my iminent journey into the jungle of Vorboon, in search of the Abstract Scroll. Within its writngs are techniques that are crucial to my artistic progression, and I shall share what I learn with you. Once I have learnt the teachings of the scroll I shall finally be able to complete Emerson, The Great Water Lilly, and apply the finishing touches to my homage of Rotondo The Clown."

Our words had been spoken and I would begin to embark on a quest that would be of great importance to what was meant to be in a time when we would begin.

We began our journey in the evening, when the air was cool and the Bloodfang Mosquitoes were perched high in the trees. The jungle of Vorboon was dark and abstract, especially at night, when winding vines and hollow trees could lead lost travellers deep underground. I quivered in fear as Outside-Inwards Jenkins led me deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle. However, though fear pervaded my soul, I still saw an inner light transmute within my mind's eye, morphing into the form of the Abstract Scroll. I allowed this image to guide my fearful heart.


Part 4

Fear moved with us into the bleak jungle of Vorboon, the canopy above eclipsing our throats like body-clung latex. The torturous heat ushered from me crystalline salt of the sweat gland, cascading in hallucinogenic fragments of mirrors reflecting refracted light, curving around us and confusing the spectrum of amalgamated forms.

"Outside-Inwards Jenkins, please, I cannot take this any longer! We must leave this writhing jungle!" I wept one million tears of sorrow and fell to my knees in lamentation.
"Do not weep-weep, earth-being, for we have arrived upon the temple's entrance."

The temple soared above us as if in the dream of a secluded architect, creating cataclysmic structures within his slumber. Its beauty was truly beheld, by us, fading into mist-forged fog, reminiscent of the Marabou stork or the Shoebill— the fog's imperious gaze.

Upon the temple's steps stood the long-necked man, Scatard Acrosdaune. His countenance was elongated with sinister elation. He was unquestionably bizarre in every conceivable manner. Everything about his appearence was long and disconcerting, as if he were the echo of an echo of a man. His lecherous strides were reminiscent of The Ghost of a Flea.

"Please, thou welcome most unto the existential temple of the Abstract Scroll. Scatard Acrosdaune, he who is I, shall be your guide within the depths." Now, with a foreboding resonance, Scatard Acrosdaune paused in ominous contemplation, shrouding the mechanations of his frontal lobe.

"Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Walk in mine footprints, before the Bloodfang Mosquitoes quiver and awaken, as the shimmering sunlight fades."

Within the temple, cyclopean blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous alignment of masonic anticipation, partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the Sea Horns. We would head deeper still, deep into oblique chambers of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collected mental cognition.

With cascading light faltering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable catacombs of dread— between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and totem poles transpiring against the unification of collected consciousness, inspiring gelatinous brain matter— had overcame us.

Sliding through abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge! Subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation! We allow silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation and culminating in continuous arachnid dread!

Azul despejado,
iris color mar es lo que yo quiero mirar,
en aquel castillo dorado
que tanto anhelo explorar.

A tu lado sería feliz,
como primavera en otoño,
como aguas que no se mezclan.
Eres el tesoro escondido:
mi arco Valori.

Tu amanecer es como aquel arco amarillo,
tan lindo como el sol,
tan desplegable como las estrellas.
Quisiera estar entre tus brazos.

Un minuto de silencio.
Oh, mi lord:
esto ha llegado a su fin.

"Don’t mind their judgment or wilt for their say—
Once mortals behold you, they'll all drift away.
You won’t need these petals or roots to remain,
You’ll be sung in sonnets, not whispered in vain.”

Lotus said all these words with such great love
A love too polished, too practiced to shove.
It wrapped around Rose like the promise of a vow.

"Where is this throne you all speak of in bloom?
Is it real—or merely a crown veiled in doom?”
Rose asked Lotus, with her petals drawn tense
like a trembling stem in the wind, unsure of defense.

The throne,” Lotus said, “is no pedestal crowned.
It beats in the thumping hearts that gather around.
Not shaped by the hand, nor born of the clay.
But risen each time a mortal looks your way.”
Azure, the Tiller, heard all but stood still,
Like old loam that waits at the foot of a hill.

“What is a throne?” Tulip didn’t quite say
"Is it filled with fragrance that never goes away?
Is it stitched in the petals that never fall down?
Or tucked in gazes that hollow a crown?"

Daffodil said-"If we linger in lore, we’ll root in despair
Let’s find the path out, while we’re still aware.”
"Let's consult Lotus on this " Marigold told.
"Before we become myth at the threshold.

A rosewater and sugar flavored dream
That stokes a burning star within the heart
And fills the eyes with galaxies a'gleam.
Fantastic hopes rekindled from the dead
Of happy endings no poor odds can thwart
Race through a mind lying awake in bed.
Many a fantasy has filled my head.