The Dream of the Octopus

[StExquisite]

Hello there pilgrims, I am broadcasting to you live inside a glass jar that's located at the confluence of Simpatico and a Aquamarine chrysalis globe that's been drowned in reverberated sound. Have you lit the cinnamon apple candles, the cloudberry incense, the molotov moonshine inside a tea kettle that's traipsing through a tempest, the pile of newspaper clippings from 2002 that you've collected in a meadow that exists within a hypercane? You honor my precarious existence with your mundane insistence on writing that Xanga blog from a decade back about the Seven Weeks War and Oscar Wilde's dreams about trench foot and the pleasure that came from the subsequent amputation that was first given digital sentience in a kratom-fueled daze. Stand now at the altar burnished in vertigo and intricately-carved jade Bodhisattvas that cannot be melted down and exists in a temporal fusion that stretches across several dimensions and idiosyncratic wavelengths. You take a long and almost interminable gaze at the orderly, the meaningless, and the chaotic that's been cloaked in grey matter semiotics, vestiges of your own brain in a 3D printed hologram, a holotype of an octopus trapped in a jar and was marked by the imagery of a looping parallelogram that's devouring its own karmic energy like an astral serpent. Without making a sound, a Gregorian chant bursts forth from your awed form, the antediluvian hymnal to the Octopus that's trapped in a glass jar. You think me a Houdini, that I can make the great escape with a flick of my opalescent tentacles that jut forth madly like cracks that form on a windshield. But no, I will not. To escape the glass jar would serve me no purpose, would give your cult minimal meaning. And so I end this broadcast with a staccato burst of love that glistens like purple diamonds on Mercury's invisible shores, and a warning to remember your vows of eating Zebra Cakes after you've soaked your flesh in the bathwater of your temple complex that you call a home. 

Godspeed and good night. 

Edited October 8, 2020 by StExquisite

[In Flames]

nani?

[SwimOdin]

23 minutes ago, MoistDaddy said:

nani?

The port was alive with strange faces. It was dawn by the time he found an old salt willing to part with a vessel for what bullion he had left, a cutter with a Bermuda rig called the Merciful, the sails ragged and ripped, its compass cracked, its rotten hull just barely able to cut the breakers. But it would be enough to make his escape.

It wasn't for another hour, when he was a mile from the docks, that his thoughts turned back to her, he imagined her alone. By then, she would have searched the house and found it empty. She had suspected it all along, and now she knew, he was a coward. A coward dressed in the uniform of a brave man. Brave enough to cross two oceans and a continent to find her, to fight countless enemies, and yet, in the end he was terrified. Terrified of her.

To lie beside her, to be comforted by her as he wept, to show her he was small, for her to know that and touch his cheek and whisper words softly into his ear, all of that was a nightmare. All he knew to do was run. But now, here, he was free.

He took a deep breath of the air, tasting the salt on his tongue and closed his eyes, leaning into the spray as the Merciful picked up speed and sailed for the horizon. He was alone and all was well, he did not have her and he did not want her, he had this, and this was enough. Always, he would have the sea.

[RainyDayJizz#35]

👍

[Seight]

Your subconscious mind is trying to tell you that you've seen enough porn to know where this is going.

[Chapinator_X]