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Spectare Incognito
From a land-bound shire he arrives at the sea, the sea his dry skin desired, that he squeamous feared. Like the stickiness of blood. The too translucent night sea, unveiler of gelatinous unnameables, the true innominable slimes of plasms. In an en-suite room, as John Smith original, he settles for privacy and reading. Playfair, perhaps, or Mayboy. Juice-flow spasms from Ilford: Ron took Maureen rearing on her knees. God, that Danish woman. That oozing spawn. Cogitant, he adventures on the late beach. High tide resurrects its diurnal dominion, thrashing like a bull. He gags at the wasted expenditure, calculates the giga-watts of rhythm. His shadow retreats to catered seclusion, to his weekend for two alone. He sleeps fragmented, like a broken pot. Dreams creep over him, horrible, like a tentacular empathy of sucker. That feeling touch. So horrible alone the time it slid. Coiled.
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