Scream of Unconsciousness

The sky was blue bluest blue. The morning sky was so blue it was invisible to the clothed eye, the eye that sees things naked. The sky was so blue it disappeared altogether, vanished into the blue (her tailbone punched into my coxes, the pubic-bone, so I, I burrowed like a foxhound). These are strange times strange times indeed so they are so they are. The harridan met the legless man at the second church bazaar, the one after the one before the last. I am tired of all this nonsense so I think I’ll stow it in (her pubic-bone punched a hole in his foxhound coxes). A pox-gray sky; all thought of blueness vanishing from sight. I am fatigued of this, so much so, so fatigued that dread has set in, Moyle-collar (also known as ether and ethoxyethane, CH3-CH2-O-CH2-CH3). (Coming off her skin, you could smell… It, most certainly, off her skin like an awful thought) may the morning beacon a hardy halo. He spread ice-cold creamery butter on his flapjacks, the kind his great-greatest-greater-great grandmamma made with churn and pestle.