Contrails knot briefly in the air describing disastrous impacts from parallel earths.
The knotting intensifies, fresh sky-lines seep out of the blue.
The sky fills for a second with every possible disaster from every imagined world.
Packed-in simultaneous crash marks make a flickering second dawn like the rising of a predatory alien sun.
A skyburst of inverted antiverse electromagnetism ignites every streetlamp in a radial mile.
The sodium filaments burn negative-image black and the blackness surges for a moment like waves from an unlikely tide breaching the defences of a shore.
Inside the colour-swap zones hanging from each lamp like burning flags, teeth and eyeballs gleam like polished jet. Pupils, bruises and sensible shoes shine like full moons.
Often-invisible citysmog clogs like scabbed-up blood around the daemons claws.
Catalytically converted carbon oxides forming the cities ultralight fullerene shell react badly to the active touch of livings things from beyond any possible existence.
They bunch into oily scabwound snowflakes and drift from the creatures mid-air footfalls in a toxoclastic rain.
Pigeons feel the magnetic weft of the world spinnereting.
Flocks lose their cohesion.
Abandoning their rigorous sense for distance, movement and time.
Birds approach too close, land on, and fly through crowds, they flee invisible threats and dash upwards into the faces of commuters, under papers, into cars and cribs.
The death-addicted winds that endlessly ride the sides of buildings and the fronts of trains, waiting for a suicide, snap round.
Their feeder-tendril zephyrs taste the air.
Semi-gales converge from every side, whipping through the rooftops, making the wires hymn, heading all towards the central spot.
The daemon gasps out breaths with semi-independent life.
Doomed, these wraiths fall dying with each fresh exhale.
They stink of burning plastic, old fireworks and bad wounds.
Each dying vapour, born embryonically curled, awakes on exiting the mouth, grows eyes and features, realises its fate, and screams.
Aware of its inevitable entropic dispersal it watches limbs form and drift apart like soap dissolving in a bath.
Remnants of them sucked back in upon the next drawn breath.
People hear the parasites on their skin and everyone senses the scurry of rats beneath the street.
Movements always present but ignored, wiped from our awareness by the homophone world.
Now the rat claws sound like train-tracks and our voices and screams are the piping of bats.
Death winds flank the daemons walk and tread the duellists skin on his approach.
Contrary vapours shiver in his clothes and tangle up his near-black hair.
A puddle holds the footfall of the red track-suited man just as he turns, portraiting the daemons form.
A fragment of grey sunlight hits his scalp, a