CYANIDE DREAMER

in hushed voices during the interlude

ambient tones melt luxuriously under your numb tongue, but such delicacies never last long- a sharp zest of flavor ties cherry-stem knots at the base of your spinal cord as a toddler shoots his voice up with a finger that plucks orion's belt from a row of muted spotlights (mommy, it looks like the hollowed neck of nyx adorned with stolen diamonds!)

a lemon car air freshener smile arcs across his face with the gravity of halley's comet- it's clichédly contagious, but the long-lipped misanthrope behind you huffs in discomfort: he's allergic to the phylogeny of yellow. nausea stains the lapels of his coat, spreading across his face in lemonade-filled boils. he blows his nose on wrinkled sheets of spacetime and raises the white flag to the heavens, where peter pan's shadow molds it into a bleached dove perched atop the rafters. 

eirene is restored, and the humming lights- fattened summer-bearing fireflies- decrescendo into an all-consuming inkblot. 

say what you will, but this is my flavor of catharsis.