Holy Batwings, Murder Girl, have I got a story for you!
It’s twelve twelve and there goes a shooting star over
Mount Dragonsnort. The summer milk in each dim bulb
navies an otherwise sinister river, our iconic Creek Full of
Broken Numbers. Odd men are out; they smatter the
shore with balding languor. Suddenly, up in the sky,
it’s Kaiju. He’s breathing a word-message: “Death not
to the language making dizzy the angst-ridden mudders!”
What it means to the clock on the landscape doesn’t stop
the story from dancing. Zero grows feral, fills himself up
on red pills and [daisies]. No matter the prattle, this dance
allies with a gangly plot, pilfers all the loopy newsreels,
parades through the city like a snake-plant atop a garbage-
heap of iPods and cellphones. Nobody knows how to open.
