Yuki and the Dream That Embraces Her Interior A big purple balloon crashed into the silo, and they came running out screaming and wondering how it could have happened, and sure enough the lid came off rolled around the grassy field, and the cows scattered with their eyes wide with fear and their clumsy bodies barely escaping the vertical alien saucer as it cut a groove deep through the green, into the mucky brown. Yuki thought ‘oh no’ and sure enough the cloud got out of the open silo, crackling and popping in the air… and it came for them all and melted their flesh, and they dissolved in the air, a collection of vanishing crimson droplets. Through the window with her head down crouched on the bed she was sobbing and whispering the names of the dead, going ‘oh no no no no no’ holding her copy of Wizard of Oz with the antiquated cover art all primary colors and that smudge in the top right hand corner where she moved it while her hands were covered in blood red paint. The balloon crew as skeletons fell from the basket breaking apart as the cloud came down and spread, over the hills to blot out the sun and the moon and the stars as well. There she was hiding knowing the whole thing was over now that the cloud had gotten out, and no one left to help, no one to talk to… she supposed she would go mad. The room with the wallpaper peeling flowers she felt suddenly free and took the corner of the pattern and tore it from the wall, revealing wallpaper astronauts on the moon planting giant American flag, helmets reflecting the Earthrise like some gorgeous blue frown, and she took that corner and tore it from the wall, and there were cartoon bears on a picnic, the mother bear scolding the baby having toppled the honey pot and the ants in the amber immediately and papa bear laughing in the background, and she took the corner of that wallpaper and tore it from the wall, and there was a hole in the shape of a door, a door that had been removed, and from the hole there was music… she peeled more of the wallpaper from the wall and there was a smudge and a diagram of the barn, the location of the cloud, the best access routes, and a plan of attack. She was about to exclaim some sordid exclamation however it was prevented by invisible tentacles afloat on the music wrapping her mouth, and the nub of the tentacle was a second mouth over hers, and it began to sing along, and the words were backwards and made zero sense… then another tentacle came out from the hole and reinforced her arms and legs, and they made her walk behind the wall, down a set of candlelit stairs all the while singing uncontrollably through her second mouth, and smiling through it, and screaming behind. Manipulated downwards meeting great swarm of fireflies whispering and climbing into her ears, enlarged as they were by the tentacles, and the sound growing harder and deeper and louder, and tearing the cells from her brain as she progressed irresistibly towards the great mushrooming infection of the world, some abject collection of oozes and wires, self-manipulating in semi-liquidity, great toothy pockets from which the tentacles came, and the mouth over hers began to laugh horribly, and the tentacles quickened her run to the mouth, and the mouth opened and closed and the teeth dripped with paint, bled from the gums these putrid rainbow globules at which she was laughing, and as she emerged, the laughter reached her guts, and increased until she was almost shredded, and the teeth came down and the paint got her eyes, and they began to sting but she could not blink it away. She remembered her mother telling her about it—these magnificent paints that self-sculptured and crossed every wire in the human psyche, dragging every aspect into fresh perspective, imposing their epics onto great ripened pupils, choosing their subjects and forcing them in, causing little cuts for access… Great medicating films began from that day forward— side effects of nausea, lowered immune response and occasional euphoria. She sang to herself: there are no better states than when status is changing taking what comes in whatever you are the cuts fall so open then bleed and seal in those living things want to begin in your blood hear their low childlike voices and fires get big excited transmissions ceremoniously performed all exhausted night making memories so sound their festival through the scratched-at door somewhere in your deep binding of dreams slashed and exploding their liquid rainbow feathers release burning spring hidden under your straight skin only two hours after swallowing those hospital razors you spent three days cocooned in morphine and gauze security of blankets wrapping euphoria of distance spilling internal love with great prismatic voices trumpeting fresh eras like mysticism of disease and your eyes felt so wide in one panoramic take during medication films the onslaughts of flesh caved the wealth of your milky way mouth, the embrace of its pit in glorious slow explode. She saw down the wells in the basements of former civilizations whose melodramatic topples crashed ivory towers of self-perception, and she longed to receive someone so unprotected like an unbridled infection of octopi in the gleaming milk of her flesh. She was photographed in dark, narrow alleys, turning over her shoulder so her face caught the moonlight. She wrote a story of longing to be found in the garbage. She stuck to her dreams, and the asphyxiation. Finally, one day everything clicked....
