three wells in a stolen world

 its a body of water glaugust we're all saying this. i've been swimming in the river of equity.

from its bod untimely zipped

The Eye of Dead Ouroboros
The old snake ringed his own eye, which filled the space encircled by his eternal devoured/devouring body.  powdery cobalt silt quick-forming eyelike vortices, cobweb bridged with lacy strands of mucus secreted by these lavender crawling man-things. 

they're like serene grublike infants with faces like soap bubbles winking out and four whisper thin daddy long legs limbs and nostrils just absolutely pouring lace ropes of snot. they’re called the youngest family and they’re from the future. 

There, the Master of the House has finally returned from walking the far planets, and humans have accelerated/degenerated down alternate post-human evolutionary tracks to flee from him as he tries to bring his soulless flock to heel, hunting those who resist his shepherding with the hound-blessed bodies of their kin. 

You can go fishing in these silt whirlpools. Your hooks and nets are gigantic and invisible to the things of the future, who vanish from their time as you haul them into yours. Since your fishing tackle will be of ordinary size when you pull them out, you have to act pretty fast before your lines break under the strain of the now full-size catch

1. An old woman in some kind of shroud of flexible rust-colored metal that grows from her spinal column. gasping for oxygen from a mask no longer connected to anything
2. A tumorous growth of soft, bubbling plastic. If any of the bubbles are pierced, a bright yellow fluid spills out of them, staining anything it touches irrevocably. even the total obliteration of the stained thing does not remove the stain, which lingers in the air absent of subject. 
3.  A white lioness with a mane like the hair of an old woman nursing a litter of scarlet apes. All are extremely sedate to the point of sometimes forgetting to breathe. The milk of the lioness feeds thoughts of satisfaction and is poisonous to thoughts of restlessness or fear. 
4. A little man dressed in a motley of crinkly plastic scraps. He has a flaying knife that is all gummed up with a substance like gluey semen and will castrate himself out of sheer panic if you don't stop him. 
5.   a rat-king of hairless, wet, iodine orange lambs with the arms of human babies in place of legs, tangled together by their numbered umbilical cords. if permitted, they will fuck continually, rapidly gestating and birthing more kin whose umbilical cords continue the numeric sequence 
6.  A ten foot hypothermic woman who has had all of her ribs removed. Frost bristles on her purple lips. You can see the shapes of her individual organs beneath the skin draped over them. Though they're recognizable, none of them are the right shape. If you cut her open you can see that each organ is starting to grow a small clone of her around themselves. 

im allergic to horses

Fountain of the Mares
a ragged pit in the gravel, filled with stinking blood and white globules of fat. the Mares of Thrace come here to suck up blood into their hollow gourd hearts. 

the blood doesn't want to leave. it clings to itself, splashes out from between the crooked needle teeth of the horses that pierce their thick, flaring lips like porcupine quills in the snout of a dog. the blood seeps through their amphibian skin when it is spent and brown and foul, and in this way any Mare can be followed back across awful miles of rotting ocean floor to the pit.

 at sunrise and again at sunset, an alien head appears above the pit. held by force of some distant and invisible origin, the neck blending out into the air where it would otherwise reach the body. never the same head, but always their throats unzip themselves and their blood gushes down through the air and splatters in the pit. you may drink this blood: it is not of Angbora's earth. 

1. like a grub the color of tea, with putty flesh rising up to swallow long bristly hairs into vacuous pores and then receding again. like breathing waves washing in to engulf the pilings of a pier before they are dragged back into the ocean. Drink its blood: vigor as a hog, unable to be surprised or ambushed.
2. two blossoms, moldy roses, each swaying at the end of a ropy bundle of nerves that then braid together. like the two earpieces of a set of wired headphones plugged into a blotchy, emaciated, plucked chicken throat. Drink its blood: vigor as a crane, body is used to contortion
3. a raw face, an open wound, with fat, wriggling lampreys stuck to every exposed and bloody inch of it. their tails curl and flex in a synpoacted sign language. Drink its blood: vigor as a leech, anything eaten this day counts as two of that thing. 
4. a head like a bowl open up to the sky, the face looking up through the spinal fluid that wells up out of its mouth. a little indigo crown floats on the liquid. Drink its blood: vigor as a cow, body used to spotting liars. 
5. something like a badger and a bearded goat, wobbling jaws gnashing with immense force on an unblemished sphere of dark metal. spittle drips downward and vanishes where the neck does. Drink its blood: vigor as a goat, body used to biting.  
6. the huge, ridged head of an idiot porpoise. bitter melon skin, partially cracked and crushed where bouquets of machines like camcorders have been forced into the flesh. Drink its blood: vigor as dolphin, can see infrared. Above the pit, extending into the outer atmosphere, a huge pillar of heat bearing down on the heads, gripping them like a vice in a thousand-fingered hand.

fountain freely

The Black Pools of the Acupuncturist Principalities
the long, microscopic fiberglass needles of the Loathsome Unicorn preserve whatever they pierce in the instant that they enter it. over time, however, the unchanging thing cannot resist the mounting pressure of the passing moments. The guilt of its resistance seeps from it, running down the needle in a thin trickle of black ichor that, once it begins to flow, will not cease until the needle is removed and the thing succumbs to putrefaction. 

Thus the people of the Principalities are sustained. The rot-black essence of a fruit contains all of its nutrients, while leaving the actual fruit untouched to the eyes of the Ash-Tongued Curse. They build canals to catch the ichor that dribbles from their unchanging orchards and channel it into the tile-lined pools that lie at the center of their ring-shaped settlements. 

The ichor is foul and bitter; the Physician-Princes and their retainers do not partake of it, instead piecing their stomachs (and other organs, should their status afford them enough needles) to escape the gnaw of hunger forever. Besides them, only the most degraded criminals enjoy this rare gift. They are tortured before they are pierced, their wrist and spines twisted back against themselves, their teeth broken with delicate silver hammers. Preserved in agony, hearts pierced so they will never die, they are placed at the bottom of a tiled pool, and slowly covered by their own ichor.

 This is how the Princes obtain more needles. the Loathsome Unicorn does not come often, but eventually, the stink of so much saturated sin calls to it. When it comes, it finds no wrongdoer to carry back to its brides, but even its passing is enough; its horn grows and sheds its needles constantly, and white-gloved technicians gather them for redistribution among the acupuncturists. 

the Physician-Princes are careful, but not unambitious. While they stay away the groves and herds favored by the Glass Basket-Tigers of Angbora, many smaller clan-towns with their own ways of circumventing the law of His Hungry Majesty have found one day that the plants and animals they steal have been pierced with needles, and must resign themselves to the taste and stink of ichor. 

find your source and drink it