Lumique by Matt Alexander


I emplain to the oche oche oche. In the white violet night I recite the sephel-oh sephel-ay sephelee-lee, at least till the sun corylizes. I crimp a circuit for tom borrow. At last, as the final crepuscles give way to their shinder corpuscles, I perform the diminuendo of brooboo-lit day. It is the least I can do now that ghoula ghoula has revived that foolish troobaloo.


We sought fliberation but the swazi vextologized and timpurdeigned for sooth and westin. In the end they banged.

Now all I have left is the lumique. I listen to its soft melancholies, transformed harmonics like the velvet of angels tremoloing under the condensed milk of their haloes. All of a sudden the chords snap and fall like blue rainwater and white lavender night and I sense a glimmer of galaxatial pneuposia. Under the white stona I lift a rosatiate calyx and whelm up whopping ghast-light.

After the grace turned ochre and solid, cogastrulated and bedizened with sod, I oh-mowed an odious iniquity. I eritrated on the ploughmen’s feels. For his part, Slaketree shook off and scoreated hope to the damson spry-high sky. Soon he was dead, like the west, and solemnly I ingrained him to my sallow topology.


I emplain to the ooche, ooche, ahh, call down to the joopluh jumpleh jiboingo. It is that time again. In my brahman-mind, the durvles falter and it reminds me of Slaketree’s extropollutions when the swazi betook him like a freagle, freshly foal, bleating like a cello played with a knife.

I miss him. I miss them all.


Returning to the softly vibritating dough, coopring fey was easy enough. I pressed my years to the mounting ocean of landare and for millennia wasting the pile grew.

I need the lumique now for my starfing stomach and straight-laced larynx. How else could I forget the years, without which I could never aplicot those glimby oh-tones?

But still, what can I do? Everyone flew away like petals picked, fowlers fools, golden morsels of caramel alphabets and fleur-de-sil doves. Sipping on a flickering liqueur, a pasty brandy sort of shenanigan to pass-time the present, there is nothing but the next day, indurendo obdurate, and its lumique mystique.


I emplain to the oche oche oche. I flow down the din over seploin’ seplain’ seplah. That’s when the sun debrides into some flambeaux yellange. I study the time with a soldering iron, stickle flags in my years. With a board of bread, I look to tom borrow, hoping it can lend me a gola or ree.


I scold the watch,
await the plane,
lampoon the flaneurites,
conduct through red dielectrics,
squeetch the fermata,
hold, hold, hold…


The memory of lumique carves me in two and I am whole, still holding. It’s quiet. The owl dopes are out and they hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo. Showered by descending lunitons, trinkly and sparkling peppegios, a rainbow specter lifts her glyph and omnipoints me toward the heartiest dome.

I can hardly see. The two-pi steradian structure might blurge with vellacity, cranyons and home, those sorts of calmissures. I can’t be sure, though, so I keep a ball of sight coaxloaded on the clarified shade; I won’t be unglued from the ghost’s tutu. But still I need to comet with my white-hot tail. It splutters and shimbers like work fired through a prism, split into its constituent colors.

Lifting the metallic pedals and my so-dull torche, I rewire the past.

Matt Alexander is a scientist and writer in Philadelphia. When struck by insight, he shouts “Bazinga!”, not “Eureka!”, although he has nothing against Archimedes and is in fact himself an avid bath-taker. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flapperhouse, After the Pause, and Unbroken Journal. Follow him on Twitter at @thenamesmatta.