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Nix

For Breakfast, Nix Eats

By Keenan ChiassonPublished 7 years ago 2 min read
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Nix

- For breakfast, Nix eats-

- Whadduz Nix eat fuh / breakfast?

- Hooly hoops-

- Spaghetti loops & pitty bred

- peetie brid-

- peetie pit pit pit pit peeeeeeetie breeeeeaaaaad!!!!!!.

Rumbling ensues

Shady,

pitch-black exterior

of the ghostly,

shelled-out

husk-of-a-form.

It once found itself

encased in smooth

black glass

rounded

and set with

golden trim;

a soft cushion

encircled,

made of delicate,

platinum-stitched,

forest-green,

leather.

It wanted red.

It cruised,

impervious

to the death-inducing

yellow-haired

stares

of creeping,

manufactured

night-forms.

Din't owe nobody nuttin'

Spat a wicked fizz

of ectoplasmic

quips.

Something came from down on high to interrupt its daily luxury stroll through the night-time undead.

It rippled inwardly

and shuddered at the irony

that there might be another sixty-four years

before it hits that stroll once more.

It didn't matter where it left them,

there always seemed to be a stranger,

waiting sick,

beneath a spire,

ready with

a launching grip.

Nix was ill with sick-formed fancies,

Thund'rous bellows caved their way

into its mind for that mere shallow

break upon the serpent's twine.

Nix could see its distant freedom

hanging thread so loose, its sway,

dreams of death in coffee cups,

pill-box unions,

smoke-filled graves.

To glean this fortune,

Nix surmised,

ascend the pulpit

sans demise

and find arrayed

to its surprise

a treasure's trove

of soul-supplies.

They saw it before they heard it.

They seen it before they heared it.

We were never ready for Nix.

Descending roughly

with the decadence

of a smith's

liquid

ammunition.

Red gaze at the ready,

readied and redded.

DrEADening depths of fiend-like

whispy bits ripping

nine clips

from sixty shit-starved rays.

'Hey... Hey, you! Yeah. You. Read closely:

there

is

nothing

here,

but

string.'

And with that,

spiderwebbed frames

of sickly, shifting

flames

shamed

Nix

with experience,

and showered

holy

ghosts

into a funnel

of network

marketing

research.

Swallowed and glugged,

by Ms. Millie's

aquiform

lieutenant,

Nix,

living comfortably,

among cellular tubes,

pumping fiber optic cables,

and intravenous solutions,

made slave

to the coruscating sparkle

of rotating paradigms,

chasing,

forever,

the snake

which eats

its tail,

laughing,

recalcitrant,

under the watchful

glass

eyes

of

o

p

t

o

e

l

e

c

t

r

o

n

i

c

l e n s e s

p

r

o

t

r

u

d

i

n

g

f

r

o

m

b l a c k

a

p

e

r

t

u

r

e

s

.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Keenan Chiasson

"I want to burn with the spirit of the times. I want all servants of the stage to recogni[z]e their lofty destiny."

-Vsevolod Meyerhold

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