zombie artist faceoff

I require a hat, a philosophical plug to contains all of my wares, before they fly from my head like fluff and embryotic puss to plague the world. My thoughts are strange, they are viral. Here I lay; I am strapped to a canvas where intellects beyond the scope of reality dabble with their paints. They leave arcane pencil marks within my grasp in the hopes my sere gray matter might connect the dots. Driving to and fro on tiny wheels, the buzz-heads are tied like a child's toy, plethoral and fixed by a single laid track that circles me in my prosaic boredom; they scoot past, jotting and throwing hues at my canvas, praying for more than a Jovian landscape that threatens to bubble over and shift like a vengeful eye into view of the captors.

Should they free my arms, so that I could trace the symbols and elements of their fictions, the room would come alive with the pictures from my mind, feeble as it is. Strains of a metaphor flow like frazzled mixture, a slurry of spite, upon the surface. Tempora(l) ideas mix with the splashed oils and hastily scribbled graphite to coagulate and alter imagery into an augury that defines my shape with delicate ess curves and shite spliced sprites that come alive and habituate the fissures in dimensions hitherto untold. There they will fester and spread as corporeal voltage into hie biddies as they circle their wagons with vestigial and spatular affronts.

Horrors, abrupt and irretrievable. An err in judgment, while they scramble to devise a containment for the erupting calamity frothing in chains. Behind the glass, seeing though square goggles and breathing potable oxymorons, ones who with their largess dictate the will of the masses watch as the scooties fret and hasten to exit via unassembled viaducts; implements of construction litter the tiles as the integral entities implode then grow like hairs into a twine that fills the expanse like a wriggling spaghetti into overflow, cracking and bursting the glass.

The goggle-eyes flee to concrete bunkers; they twiddle calculations but over the wire hear the grass is not green, the verdant hills throng with discordant ire as tendrils whip the atmosphere and toss whippet winds that hurl behemoths to their graves and scour the dying dust to its bones. Then as a calm fills the void, we will delve into the cracks to dwell in hidden well springs, slurping up molassan seas, throbbing incognito within a hard scrabble shell.

Alas, the figures don't compute, and leave the undead to wander aimlessly in the corridors of my sparse synapses, stoic but for the resonant glyph.