Random Ballads about Entropy and Chaos

Razors are smiling in my bedroom, patient as saints of corrosion, humming lullabies through their metallic gums. The album exhales from there, from that small domestic apocalypse, and immediately the walls forget their geometry. I saw the bailiff tear out his own eyes with an Aztec cleaver, a bureaucratic ritual of exquisite futility, then vomit wheels of bi-bi-bi-bicycles across a field where Yves Montand decomposed and recomposed himself endlessly among one-eyed satanic bolts, his dogs howling approximate dimensions, units collapsing into delirium. Everything measured incorrectly, gloriously wrong. Everything counted twice, then devoured. He wore a suit of human flesh, lightly charred. The skin, not the jacket. A distinction that matters in these post-existent seasons, after the comet punched a clean, obscene hole through our dimension and our already-dead lives. What followed seeped in, uninvited and ecstatic: ungovernable elsewhere-things, fusing, rotting, stitching themselves into our spacetime like parasites with architectural ambitions, grafting onto our meat, our hopes, our memories, our matter until identity became a damp rumor. Clouds growl and laugh in the magnetized sky. Their lightning hunts. You must run. You must always run. When it finds you, it does not kill so much as simplify: a small mound of post-flesh slurry, bone-juice liquefied, perhaps a fragment of jaw that chatters chatters chatters like a broken metronome keeping time for nothing. Then the sky giggles. The sky always giggles.