The incubus that had been synthesized
from the darkness where the stars died
was found among icebergs, floating on
an ocean of thorium. This is a story of
a winged serpent. Its head had cracked
open, and from the shadow of internal
organs, warm, gleaming fluids bubbled.
Falling out of the sky is hard. Prophets
prophesied that the ice would, one day,
become the grave of a horror, but they
never knew the original spirit wouldn’t
be neutralized by the cold, unforgiving
wilderness. The frozen remnants, dead
meat, release a bright red gas. It carries
illness. Finding pain pleasurable is easy,
and following the eons-long dormancy,
to the monster, human beings are only
animals to lead to a slaughterhouse. Its
wound doesn’t heal. Desire is far more
threatening than the whiteness of teeth.