Stories

phosphospex – Rachel Lilim

Slivers of ice melting to silver slick tributaries through your hair. Heavy coin silver in hand. Feel the weight branching up your arm, set alight constellations in your skull. You are a viper in abstract. Run tongue cross hollowed fangs. Vines hair thin pulse venom down spine. Coin into slot into vast hollow concrete veins. Exhaust glitter rushing, crushed newsprint doves pierced by spikes in every space for slumber. Blank eyed hurried charcoal sketches of motion. Allow yourself to be swallowed, swallow flickering darkness in return.

Expel from throat rush-throng congregations and up stairwells humid slick, faux marble reflecting guide-light runes, tacky beneath boots. White phosphor squirming in puddles, sent writhing by your steps. Air not fresh but open, lungs blossom, filter threads of scent that hang luminous in the air behind your eyes. Choose one to follow. Let it draw you. Lost in minnow flitting translucent trenchcoat crowds. You from camcorder cold distance, a pinwheel wireframe scything through geotagged stumbling corpses. One imagines you float above the scarred sidewalks.

Which thread my dear? Ochre of dead star throbbing in pupil, brief glimpses of honey dead twilight? Then up through mirrored cavalcade of frost fanged gleaming lobbies, anonymity fish scale glimmering atop your skin. Hallways gnarled aspirin bright. Unseen but by laser blink shuttering eyes. Thread grown to tapestry to river inside you as nearer you rush to oak doors crashed easily. Terminates in forehead of a clean cut grinning mask entombed behind thick slab of desk. Pick clean the fruit of his skull. Shine malignant and dissolve to airshafts and crevices, great mirror spire a small bone jut of greater forms, be subsumed to the teeming flickers, the constant weaving.

It blossoms up through you and out around you, filaments spiderwebbed, filled with holy light. It thrums honey fine grained joy and fills hollows it created. You thank it. A thousand fingers constant glittering at their work and you an eye through which to pass tendon taut thread, to sever knotted flesh, a blade, a husk bloomed craving. There in the weave you see yourself, cigarette shaky to lips, needle shaky to arm, raptured to grace. Watch your carve-tunneling flight clear the way for blessed fingers.

There are threadbare times. The weft shuttled clean, disconsolate wandering, bones strung together by rust wire. Flirting through the blade thin alleys cast in crimson light. Where whoreskin is stripped like taffy between the buildings’ teeth. Every moment an inch dragged cross cruel thirsty stone. You pull at soft light skeletons, at glass vaporous tubes in mold cushioned basements. Venom stagnates and carves new pathways through bio-luminescent flesh. Carbon vines flourish sub-dermal and rot, seep foul from your shattered skin. A blade whetted to brittle white shards of ash. Suckling at tremors and echos, flitting forms in the corners of triple lidded eyes. Yet reforged, always.

You wake from slumber, lichen that flutters like moths worked deep into flesh. A light in your core now. One that yearns to dance needlework through the city’s veins.