•
Through charred channels ript black with molten charcoal/dirigible flock in blocks off
diphthong air/ chunnels exhume funnel space thickened with flak/through barred kennel scourge of chattered meats and sweet fumed sweat swelling blustered pustules in time to feet/all drops beats diachronic.
Unstringed, he’s loose and falls in chopt drop/decimator grain decay. Shift
Hallowed be the reverb/flange phase. Delay.
The kingdom crumb, rusts in aching hollows with wind rash
Scabs ticked off the peeling wall
Fall to rodent stream
Of lead.
Modulation digitalk along the platform.
•
Stomunculus blinks voicelessly amongst the crowd.
They march past his trunk and smash his stump.
One follows the other with plugs stuffed in each mouth.
Stomuncles’ oracle is the only unplugged orafice in the tube –
Non-electric unlead mistriggered to his tongue.
Shots of molecular phlegm squeal into Stomucles’ mouth, as a voice tells him to:
“Mind the placental jelly that often makes surfaces slippery during inclement residue.”
There, across the narrow bars that flicker sparks and come and go into two giant holes, golden screens flash gleams of excrescent beauty; and when their silicone tongues lick a golem’s earhole, the golem drops its jaw, lets fall its plug and dives, open mawed, towards the glimmering sublime, as its bulk shatters across the spitting tracks.
Stomookoo feels his ribs shuttering within the capsulated stream, pressed by golems blindly sculpting him with paper. Beneath his forming feet heats the beat of something roaring near away. His open mouth lets in the onrushing course of wind as it shafts down his throat.
The golemmings squeeze in clumps on the platform edge, clustered together with their feet on words spraying: MIND THE TRAP
A little pickaninny notices Stomoral’s gaping O and, under the deluzean that it is a tunnel, puts her little head inside. Barely noticing the little feet kicking from his mouth, Stomuckle stands obedient with the golems on the platform.
By now the beats that beat beneath are rippling through their cortices and the wind storms from the gaping cavity. Paper rustles and golems clench their clusters while the yearning scream erupts from the hole.
A squinying little golem gets auriculicked by a holographic tongue and dives in front the squealing train. Before his plug can hit the track the tube goes crack through his joints and splints them all across the curve.
The woosh weaves down to lowtones and comes to stop. Between the plat and the form there rifts a gap, so that the gape to the door requires a leap to the floor or else it’s a certain curtain for the one who fits between. And it was somegoddy’s curse that there is no one golem with a stride wide enough to clear the gap, and we all got to travel in the tube so somebody’s got to give their head to the feet of the cluster. Each door with a scapegoat between the gape; the first head you find for the daily brain grind between the train and the platform.
That’s not to give honourable mention to the cleaving thud of the doors themselves that wait for no man’s hand as they rip them off when they split back through the hole.
So, Stomuter is crumpled between the flanks of golems kettling in their crush before the door and his foot sliptrots into the gap. As this is all newfanged into Stomute’s neck he assumes that this vile trampling is per the par of the course and felt obliged, nay honoured to be so undertrod by the mouthplugged rattle. And there he stands, his ringlet neck caught betwin the floors, pickleninny chopsticks squirmling from his mouth as all the golems tromp on his head.
Once the grabble had gated through the doors and clumped inside the tube, Stomuck was desirious to follow suits. He lifts his conk towards the rambled clunk and contemplates how to shift from the guillotine gap to join the local sap.
But as he looks inthrough the maws a ring blasts noise and the sleeping pickanancy wakes inside his dark gob, kicking outragingly, emitting muffled squeems. One golemming turns from his fellows’ earlplug and spots the snaggling legs.
“What beastly creature be this that chomps haply on a little one of our kind?!”
In haste the golem commits with the aide of his rabble to grab the prickling stumps and pull. The station ping blasts its final warring call and as they tug at the little pickle, the doors begin to steam and clunk.
Stomchomp, unconscientiously continues to chump his gumps round the pickahump as his head is pulled towards the grolems. Ping blasts the knife doors start zoom shut and with Stomo’s neck kept against the ledge the maws slide shut and cut
Off his nog clog, comes off, and out slimes the pickleninny too, into the open charms of the handsome young gremming.
Homuckles’ trunk slunks down and is scrambled on the razor tracks, while Hom’s head rolls thoughtfullessly to the grolems’ feet. But by now they all slook unoccupied and barely notice the dislocated chunk that falls into a groove in the corner, rattling alongside the crinkle rats and flea-scabbed wraps.
Kettled as comfly as he could on the Central Spine, Hom rocks to the smoothing hum of the cattling gum. With no one with the node to wake him, Hom succumbs to drift to rest to sleep until a window opens at the end of the spine.
Next stop: the Cyberchotic Cubicle.
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