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Grak opens a fireball amongst his people.
Like hot metal ravioli they lay down in the adisopticheimeralic maelstrom of his revelation orb, limp with the burden of epiphany.
Grak lathers cold stone upon the whim of his planet's meat, grinding temples to ooze, for time an ooze-temple is'd.
Like magnificent cones of black wax, his noema-boiled people conjoin their segmented bodies and howl to universe/song.
Grak, weak with the encumbrance of his heavy mechanical brain, sets out to discover a mode worthy of his species' clay.
Like a flotilla of bacon-headed sailors, the people of Grak always welcome colors welling from holes in the air, and deliver their mangled architectures
back to Grak, horse-headed cathedrals, luminous gourds.. simple things, but as ever, Grak is an adzulant womb, for a phosphorspermatic whaling, staring through his cyclops pleasure glove at the fading noise feast of history, dancing on the bleak and mirrored backs of exteriority..
"Gravel on my Tongue," scrims Grak to the novophone.. Grak's people assume jungle-like proportions. Like a neverending vertical snake-tower of cactus hands, his people grow to the black sun of what is not, Whotiznot, from which it filters finely..
Grave matters cause Grak to hobble his people.. His people hobble merrily, lame-footed. They gambol and shuck to the magickal constraints. They pull ornate throbbing jade crutches from their marsupial neck-hives, rife with the topologies of a mutant logophantic geophasia.
Grok issues meat certificates to the hurricane particle swarms, which seem to language smiles through momentary doors which enter through Grok's memory fountains.. Grok performs a calendar shut-down on the molten carapace of the phaneronic pharoahs, turning the evanating herm-gear film-keys slowly.. Monstrous clouds form through Grok's head and his people fall as rain on papyri marsh, leaving deep purple leaches giving birth to tiger's eye foam-wagers.. Glyphs marr the pure humm of Grok's eye. His headdress of Xylene pentagrams shudders in the becoming mist of answering. Grok eats his children which are his onyx teeth-houses, like rows of black corn dancing in the void-of-music dream, the engine of Grok is consumed..
All is turned outside. Grok awakes and finds only a one-people. Grok welcomes the one-people into the cotton hanging basket with an orange stick tied with feathers of crystalline methods.. One-people shakes off its meat certificates and erupts in a dusty purple chalk flame.. Like a suit Grok dawns One-people,
and jumps down into the slides and chutes of everlasting light..