Slerbs of Swamp Hell

I wanted to slerb on the crustacean. Making a morass of the flemps and gleems. There weren’t any foramisses to withstand the cancoction of the phlegmatic agnimaux. A hum began.

I urnaded. Insofar as the insufficient bunlimages and inculcations rose from the rosewater, I knew I wanted it. I tried it once, twice. Three times and it was complete. The crustacean clicked. The gleems gossiped once more. The godmen breathed in the fog.

The godmen and the gleems did not get along. Once they were in a symbiotic relationship, that became polyamorous and that was the end of that. An honorarium was honed in on for the mediation of the conflict between the godmen and the gleems.

Somehow I forgot my honorarium. A handful of stick was all I was left with, some promises.

Insufficient funds, I used to think, before a mirk of sleuth came upon me. Insufficient, ungodly, gleemish.

I raged! I raged against the day, the moment, the rage itself. I looked the mirror in the mouth, I laughed.

I am a swamp monster. I imagine a big sister, dark raven haired, long, sweetness and bitterness in correct integration. I imagine her as my swamp hell.

She writes me letters, leaves me notes. She is dead. She wants me to remember how I can live, without connection. She wants me to read letters from somebody who is not alive, so that I can remember that I can write when I am not alive. I do not need to write for the point of connection. I can write outside of hope, without hope, without the aspirations the existence of desire suggests. I can have desire outside of desire, outside of suggestion, outside of suggestiveness, outside of the hope of increasing aliveness.

She rotates in her own dead arms. Her embrace is infinite. Her embrace is my embrace, she reminds me, and I can be hot like her because she gives herself to me. She gives me her dead caress. I kiss her on the lips. There is nothing erotic about this, but there could be.

I can start to want her. I do not need her. I do not want or need anything. But the buzzing starts. I see her start up, in her fast way, in the quick way she can be while drenched in molasses, the flies are dragonflies, and they dance with her and she does not seem to mind but she is in a fit of intensity with these agnimaux that came of nowhere and now are suddenly in flurry or flesh with her, as alive as she and as alive as anything else.

They distract from her beauty, distract from my pain, distract from the lesson and the letters she left me. The godmen and the gleems do not get along. The honorarium was for naught, the stick was what I had. I rescue her from the buzzing but I drown myself. I look again, the entire atmosphere has moved. She is in her arms, again, looking at me. She rotates. Her embrace is infinite. Her embrace is my embrace, she reminds me.