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War Dream: Hebenon Cloud

  • L. Acadia 
  • 1 min read

Swinging out colossus-scale glass doors
sucks us: air-conditioned playhouse chill
to suffocating Taipei summer
nights’ muggy embrace in Chang Kai-Shek
memorial—no, Liberty square.

Velour slime layers my inner mouth
first cheeks then leaking over gums.

賴煦, 以心, and I are in haze
space-opera Hamlet afterimage
aftersound duel across our retinae
reverb confusion, red gloss columns
echoing final act lightsabers.

Plucking tugging slick viscous slime threads
peeling it from my mouth, spawns more.

Are colonnades, plaza oddly still?
We expect teen dance teams practicing
mosquito hiss, histamine in ears
prissily-coiffed neon-necklaced dogs
tripping us down processional steps.

Intermission wine swishing spitting
but slime fills and spills from my mouth.

Light pollution often reflects red
on smog; tonight’s clouds glow green. 賴煦
stares up braced on balustrade, 以心
urges down as though grounding shielding
us: cloud currents approach from the west.
I plug my ear with index fingers,
hearing quick blood pumping rhythm
bite down to stop firm mucus
taste of bulimia
smell of already
decomposing
premature
corpses,
ours.

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