remember when the swollen red tides, the sun-baked mud-streaks, and sun-red notches all traced his ribcage - in the suitcase, in a locked box are all sixteen vials of strange and urgent tears, arranged in rows of handsome sleek torpedoes, graded alphabetized units not labeled for sale - stained slides, a hard-drive laced with dark green viral things, exorcisms being performed constantly in his suitcase, sometimes up to five at once, mastodons lumber and joust in there, tiny nations of twenty-thousand tiny humanoids divide like chromosomes and wander out into the wastelands for liquor, surgery, mascara and clones -

blindfolded bonesetter asleep on the beach, birds have been shitting on him for hours and his shoulders are now a toasted, hairy, pink leather, still dreams that tentacle flailing megalodons surge out of the deep places, trailing nets of mussel beards and bullwhips, seaweed, magnetic tape tangled in cable, and reeking of noble bottom-rot - one of the creatures accidentally eats him while licking its lips -

this deep, barnacle eaten Cthulhu, sovereign, unfolds his tentacles - quivering deep-blue pools, only a teaspoon-full or two each, dart along the surf here where the mud-taste hangs the air, flying shards cut the sand, land on your tongue to burst in sulfer and brine and semen, leaving only the last, coldest blue-black swooning dungeon of deep Cthulhu-canyon to swallow -