CHRIS REPPUCCI

She fills bottles and spent light bulbs with paint. Bold hues, deep vermillions, dark magentas, olive green, royal blue, burnt orange. Like grenades she pitches them at the walls, the chamber dripping with chromatic viscera until all the blankness is smothered. The chemical smell is pleasant, but not enough. She marches out to the shed and splashes solvents into a bucket and inhales the sharp fumes, the acrid old manure livens as it saturates. In a shard of broken mirror

The tunnels of the Temple Of Confusion flush with emotional fluid, swell with romantic waters, cascade in intuitive significance, like a great skull floating through an eternal sea, the liquid filtering through its salt softened sinus passages whispering a narrative into a dreamers ear, dreaming they are awake, going about their business as usual but much further and wider and vaster and deeper than normal, the periphery of their perception scrolls back to reveal more of the

In the interim between dark Moons the fiery red hot rod melted into a paddle wheel river boat, sending fans slowly through the muddy slurry, and the sky high hot air balloon shrunk into an Ox landing four hooves into the muck with a muffled thud. In the ditch where we found ourselves bailing brown water from the puddle into the channel pale by pale we could still remember yesterdays fission, the sparks and nuclear chain reactions that spat out newspaper clippings and inciner