It's drawn here by sugar they hang in plastic globes on sundecks. Thick molasses pumping through arteries trained like cold pipes. The mammoth rises to life out of ice, wounds bleeding tar from the remembered pale of neanderthal glory days. It steps out of age, vulnerable to carnivorous bears that haunt the wasteland north and stalk the evergreen entrail of fire-truck slug tracks. Smells like steel and creaking plumbing shedding rust. Pure blood spills down the course violin tendons where a Prince's perfect shot has crippled the meaty fortress creature.
Somewhere in Iqaluit the Eskimo Messiah plays divine right of survival with a sled of dogs and a Darwinian harpoon. His lance is tipped with a pyramid barb, given Anubis decisions over the weight worth of sustenance through the cold season. Does he see in the icy pools, mastered by surgeon's devotion, the probability of frost shatter? Wedges spiking cruel brahma torture.
Understand the precise agony of biology's monument falling out of history or existence, charred and consumed by humanity. We starving hug pillows and hope for warm stomachs, setting sleep against the hummingbird needles in chest valves. Compare to me a cirrhosis abortion on bed sheets. I am King's heart weasel. I am Wilde's Saint Sebastian.
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1 comment:
An invitation:
though you have dramatically informed me of your profound hatred, i cordially and without bitterness invite you to join myself and Cam in "our" cube.
(you and Cam could work some on that "compatibility" *nudge*)
my gum is still yours for the sharing, and i owe you a Coke.
so don't be a silly little bitter boy. :)
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