Rareplane Scrip

She had an airplane made of animal smells that had too much hair. Some of the hairs were metal, others wrote relatively spurious Gothic prose. The runway was upside my head. And your head was it’s tower. There was a sky, but it was made of weather painted onto butter.

Now, before I was born, I was a gun who was in love with beauty products. My father was a pneumatic hammer with secret transsexual proclivities. Although I never admitted this, I ached to wear lipstick or use a mudpack, but all I ever got was bullets and grease. When it would rain outside, little dogs would fill my barrel, and their masters would meet in the chamber for whiskey and cigars. I used to laugh because those were not really cigars. They were the souls of dead politicians from the future.

When she flew the airplane I would smell giraffes or marmosets. Some of the hairs would become gods, and tiny churches would spring up in microscopic villages around the globe. The airplane was armed with arms. Some of these played violin, others, cricket. A few of them were guns; others had vaginal palms.

My brain is not actually made of meat inside me. It is the milk of an octopus spilling itself slowly into Saturn’s rings in accidental flurries. Too often I am tempted with the revelation that God’s toilet is never flushed, but there is a computing matrix hidden in the handle whose nature is relevant to human acquisitiveness.

You want to rob the bank, but leave the money. Take the fucking vault, kidnap the sexy teller at noodlepoint, and make a new Eden where the ridiculous hazards of citizenship are your pets. You are candy from space for stars to eat. Marry the moon’s old, dead ocean, for she will give birth to a ghost who is liberty’s only true daughter. She is made of singing salt and percolation.