Blessed are the Mouths of God

Ganymede and Thet slither 'long the balustrade, trading orange pork specimens gathered from the heart of the purple quasar in the room with the long windows. Balancing pink Spanish slug lips laterally, avoiding laser moonbeam locators, elegantly. They speak in low whispers. Tongues caressing ear-shapes and chests erupting red flowers and snakes light bites on soft shoulders. Battle scar beauty mark – long ragged road across the eye, pale and hypnotic in soft shadows - Thed of swords and rape, inside out goddess of meat and viscera, teeth clacking like silver tree branches in core of winter peers into Ganymede's amethyst eyes. "What vulture must the great pig pass on his flight to your moon?" Keening, drops razor, axe, and flail, machete and poniard from her black horse mouth, absence of infinity.
"Abasi's vulture. The Inchoate One – the nest of your desiccated womb, automatic, beyond repair – the lyre in the maelstrom. The messenger circles." Rending rotten meat with perfect teeth, Ganymede wiggles his little finger and sighs.
Thed sets her mouth into a grim straight line as her florid cheeks erupt small brown moths splashed with oxblood red patterns. The moths curve up toward the high ceiling near the holes where the moonlight invades, flutter in a chaotic arc and fly back into her skin. "The Byzantines," she coughs, and then, "the Byzantines and their whores. The whores with the flaming red hair that whirl about like tempests with lightning eyes, them and their black sword bearers who ride the tall azure stallions with armored steel plates on their necks like centipede bodies, they will ensnare the messenger with their magic totems and five-fire-nets." She coughs again; a great ragged hacking, moist and smelling of musk and ancient cellars. And with her eyes heavily lidded, she says, "Go, Ganymede. Go to the elephantine mountain peak of Lakshmi mother lotus. Seduce her, exploit her spectral corona and take the five-sided-shield to the Byzantines."