Posthuman Blues

He pauses under the awning and breathes in aerosolized rain, fresh despite the taint of fossil fuel. The storm turns the skyline into a strobing silhouette; cars pass like oversized insects nearing the end of meandering lives and dimly recognizing their futility.

Flesh bursting along unlikely seams. A glimpse of muscle and tendon before laces are nonchalantly tightened, buttons fastened in a series of quiet metallic clicks. Octopi sulking in tepid bathwater, feasting on doughy wads of bloodless human skin. Teeth sprout from fingertips. Crockery levitates, shatters, falls to floors littered with anonymous feces and delicately severed limbs.

Vinyl apocalypse. Prophetic fluorescent night. A landscape of entwined skin and rubber faces, enormous worms writhing in a parody of genetically cultivated sentience.

Holograms, mirrors, ranks of spotlights and the ruby-needle stab of elusive lasers. Skulls made of rudely compacted sand. A liquid crystal dragon courts its own flaming fractal breath before vanishing.