The Bricollagist they chased you in your heavy mud-lined temple boots through fish city Bruno expulsing the triumphant beast their pot-bellies like angry black bubbles on a mirrored chin their spiny tails working furiously but child-like encumbered with their languourous bulk of skin-jewels the rafters you had worked into their religion were creaking like an ice chandelier in a giant's mouth the great ropes of your fingers had worked its way among their wishes and awakened something like an atavistic irritant a slow burning heart-crab its mechanical teeth sawing their bodies in blind twilight ages mewling in forbidden clamp-works a simple disease worked by mud-pilots into idols of stilted shame models of the sacred genitalia removed from the scrying house and into the skull repository as you floated away with your lipopouches and your purple scroll-lined rectum-balconies bulging with their rendered children one lone tear dripped into the recycling tank
