Birdstorms and similar phenomena became known as geotraumas, closing airports and pedestrian zones and certain zip codes of consciousness. Avian clouds spirited through vast swathes of sky, heaving and shifting in dark amoebas, their screams razoring the heavens. The casualties included those blasted in shit like plaster sculptures, bilewhite figures dazed on park benches or pleading to the invisible. More serious were those who suffered damage to their inner ear mechanisms, hammer and anvils stinging for weeks with the bellicose frequencies of the giant sound organism. Most troubling were the rumors of those found defleshed and scattered in tangles of bone and hair, the meat of their skeletons picked clean as porcelain.

Black Wind Channels

Children crowded their gardens to watch dragonflies with television eyes through all the black wind channels of the night. The sky suffered with bees, the soft projects of their bodies able to break the clavicle. The gothic song of the spirit is full of insects, we have seen them with eyes of the Bible, mysterious continents crawling on the floors of houses. Any hole in the body was the entrance for pioneers who wanted to make their way to nest in nasal passages or other organ cathedrals where they played our lung violins like whirlwinds of sickness. Corpses formed in the brains of unbelievers.

Made of Clay

Small gods were constructed of spittle and bullets and glue, etceteras and etceteras and etceteras in their eyes. In church they practiced dark mathematics, Christ on the wall with its lips stitched shut. Of bloodsong and hunger was this world born, said the oracle. Each psalm of breath, cinema of stars. The folkmasses built the hills and valleys and harbors of the night. Stark swells. We are made of clay and breath and wonder. We are made of memory. We are zero eyed and delirious and handcuffed to the night.

Or check out the archives

Pin It on Pinterest