Stomunculus blinks voicelessly amongst the crowd.
They march past his trunk and smash his stump.
One follows the other with plugs stuffed in each mouth.
Stomuncles’ oracle is the only unplugged orafice in the tube –
Non-electric unlead mistriggered to his tongue.
Shots of molecular phlegm squeal into Stomucles’ mouth, as a voice tells him to:
Mind the placental jelly that often makes surfaces slipp
ery during inclement residue.
There, across the narrow bars that flicker sparks and come and go into two giant holes, golden screens flash gleams of excrescent beauty; and when their silicone tongues lick a golem’s earhole, the golem drops its jaw, lets fall its plug and dives open mawed towards the glimmering sublime, as its bulk shatters across the spitting tracks.
Stomookoo feels his ribs shuttering within the capsulated stream, pressed by golems blindly sculpting him with paper. Beneath his forming feet heats the beat of something roaring near away. His open mouth lets in the onrushing course of wind as it shafts down his throat.
The golemmings squeeze in clumps on the platform edge, clustered together with their feet on words saying
MIND THE TRAP
A little pickaninny notices Stomoral’s gaping O and, under the deluzean that it is a tunnel, puts her little head inside. Barely noticing the little feet kicking from his mouth, Stomuckle stands obedient with the golems on the platform.
By now the beats that beat beneath are rippling through their cortices and the wind storms from the gaping cavity. Paper rustles and golems clench their clusters while the yearning scream erupts from the hole.
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