Phosphorescent - "Ride On / Right On"

Fingers in the morning. They woke up dreaming of a head like a bowling ball, clenched in those holes. In the pink imaginary world of sun-dappled bed they grab eyes, "Owow-OW, fuck!"

Hands at night. Buzzing on paper-thin breath, the hummm hummm hummm of junk food rumble, they want to crack open a thing, one rage pull. And pull an impossible thing apart to let the juice out, like ripping a battery in half.

Thighs at six. The only thing relaxed when clenched. They accordion a liver like playing a bagpipe, like kissing a stress ball. Organ-failure squeeze, internal bleeding "yes".

And the press. The press into one flat thing, like the way mercury just *pops* together. Eventually the skin will just give way, fuse, our stomachs will open and our ribcages will wishbone. And our organs will meld or stack, a mouthful of brain, a double-strong heart, breathing from your fingertips and a neverending handhold.

[Buy from Dead Oceans]