all these spirit pearls spilled out on the black sand, being picked up by red beaked birds. under the blue water, squids jet ink over miles & miles of dead white coral. melted, popsicle or lolipop, the purple thing in the surf. the candycane moon sucked down under the horizon & melted into sugar packet stars. & the hooves of the God-Damn Black Knight, breaking apart the stone of the shrine. He burps & it tastes like grapefruit. the birds are fighting with the bats over his head. the rest of everything is as brown as wet tealeaves. other people are drinking rainwater out of hubcaps. the armies of song & silence have no soldiers but have gone to war. the purple thing-- whatever melting thing it is-- ought to be the focus here. don't even pay attention to the crap breaking up as its orbit decays. or the gorgeous, mephistophelean promise. indigo might not be a real colour but that thing sure as heck is, & the twangy guitars of the apocalypse band should've been your first clue. or my name isn't Last Trump.