Craig Wilson

Nuclear Autopsy
Now the day has fallen behind the nearest couch and I can’t find it without the magnifying glass hidden in your pockets of silver nitrate and cinema samples, so to push aside the rotten bridges of a weathered ravine I need to construct a dozen miniature cities in a shoebox as a gift.
Primp finely for radioactive fog decay, worm eaten sundials of enraged lunatic covens piling on the subterfuge of banned books so you can suddenly fly in a red tablecloth across the burning street to the Flower Garden Inn, where the walls are made of nothing but carrots.
How does each faded sanctum of distant light mock the best of drowning seas? Such things were not meant to linger in doorways of lettuce. The day slides into evening like a chained-up movie theater. Your eyes have fallen out and multiplied across endless fields of warped metallic sunbursts. Your late night hat is a storm of crows and crocs.
Blood bible nuclear autopsy, ghastly porno bummers, your creeping riot hole is flooded with birthday parties and lemon wedge tambourines fried in lizard lamps like crystal receivers in the eye, where the finest updates of mutant prurience announce the end of the era of inhibitions.
The inner fortifications of empty histories are caught upon medieval persecution memes; palm-oil parlors buried in a coconut beetles’ dreaming. You’ll find a way through the neatly folded parsecs to find the source of voices. Then the maze will open before you to cure walking amnesia and drown out the game show hosts shouting through their dunce caps.
