Cheshire Incorporated. Voices are all around again, wandering words flicker like fire, dimly lighting the vacuous cavity of my vanishing ego. What was once my sanity now belongs to someone far away. The city holds me like an enormous phosphorescent cell inside a winking roach hotel. I slink eyes on feet through the menagerie of monsters, the indigenous hores and pimps, with spiny fins piercing fur coats, green gills from self-celebratory cigars sucking. Thick eyebrows, shroud green jewels. They tucked themselves away from the world in sub-ocular alcoves, invisible but to the depraved. They beckon me and I examine them, my eyes swaying on cybernetic bug stocks, observing coolly, cataloging. Their lips peel back and hideous smiles to reveal soggy yellow canines jabbing a random from pink wet gums. They stare uninterestedly at man snorting forth in nicotine callus and slow motion turn away. They have insect-tile eyelids, all carnal lips and fat fur coats, short sequins saffron skirt, starcoes, eye heels. The city is asylum for lost lamps and while wolves is one. Where are the doctors in this madhouse? I see only the sick at scuddle, alike ants, toden bags, pistols, promises and incipit thongs. The sick leading the sick, blind rats in an ever-spreading circle. I can feel a libresy ripening in my rotten joints growing like breadmold and deep green clumps. I'm soar when ever walking on the assorted fortune cookie legs. In their barometric arthritis I can feel the man out there, the man who keeps my mind in a little wooden box locked with a rusty golden hinge. He's tall in a collar-up trench coat like a detective. He wears a raggy hat and raggy pants and he is like a living pile of rags. His hair is long and raggy, his arms are stiff, his hands crackle with old age like leather thin fingers long. He shrugs folding in his whispering arms like a sleeping moth, skin gray and fuzzy. He lights a drawn and spark catches his face and he didn't crawl. Melting gray skin like bark, broken yellow teeth clamping the poison behind them a black tongue. His nose turned up like a hollow corpses, two gloomy caverns and a marrow bar between them. He wipes that with his ragged sleeve. His eyes are smoothed flat over like beach sand. Scar tissue pale and delicate drifts over his sligh eye sockets. His ears have bonafide into mounds with a funnel-like hole in the center of each, both Indian cemeteries. He cracks a positively hideous smile. He runs a dangling limply from one lip and coiling up tendrils of smoke. He runs a long fingernail finger over the box, my spirit is it. His bulbous chap lips on your late, shluffing off words and a soothing lover's tone. So peaceful, yet menacing with intent. He beckons me out into the city night. Neon scars run all around me. Bloody scabs of Broadway. The romance is the two eminent movie stars slither into Chris and a new movie awakening in public cocoons. I'm sweating under a navy winter coat across the summer shower, wed street. Cars swish by between us but I'm right behind them. The fat woman feels the psychic breeze of closeness. She looks around, transibly at the attendant, so applaud and beg an autograph offer. She smiles nervously. I crack a truly hideous smile and grope my skin gun through my pocket. I know she could be mine. The leather eye patch rubs against my one sealed-over eye. My lips stick together and I sniff hole cheetos raw for sustenance. I light a ragged cigarette. I pay a penny to peep show two girls performing sex acts on each other. I sit there and melt my clothes into a sick pile on the floor watching the Monday late. The two sisters are reflected in the surface of the blob. My skin is a tight-grave fuzzy scar tissue all over. One girl sees me accidentally in screams. The other look so ver in wretches. My body hairs have grown to the straight back to wooden chair like moss. My black and tongue lulls out into the side. I am a greenish grey. My body is beginning to segment like a spider's. I chase the Puerto Rican girl through a southern mansion in her mind. Outside her civil war battle sounds and slaves churning butter. Finally, I trap the naked girl in a study full of animal heads and pull my peace. Everything, every real thing that is, has a counterpart in the astral sphere. I fill her with globs of milky fruitose. Millions of immature, miniature replicas of me immediately sprout from the globs. She screams in reality she just doles. I get back on the trail of my actress. You see, I can see in her cunt-filled mind that she knows the man I seek. By tomorrow that dancing lesbian hosya will be my agent and can help me follow the man through his ghetto fronts to find the real him. I hear his voice in my head. Loads, loath like a memory resurgent. Disrupting synapses. I see his eyeless smile. I know he is only an agent for something larger. Larger than I know. Why he wants my soul? Am I to be an agent for him? I can see his eyeless smile cracks, heaping gums clink, weakly to stale corn like teeth. Ripping a green tentacle of a siphon. His name is... sand.