Go to bed calm, but awaken as a hillbilly and mad. I have seen it happen before; we all have - but not like this. Behind a symphony of bulldozers, the dogs massage a snake's thigh. It is as erotic as sanskrit on a cupcake. Joan of Arc, purse zipper broken - time to die, time to die.
Underneath the mud crawls slow, thick revenge. We search the horizon for a tower made of simpletons. Everywhere is the smell of blood boiling, it stirs the surly appetites of the gods. Back at the ranch the weekend explodes.
Hillbillies are dunking their bloody, severed limbs in cold coffee in the rubble of fallen donut shops. It is redemption through cauterization. But this revelation comes too late for everyone, even the ones who have an uncle named Jake who writes almanacs. What does the future hold for the mountain creatures? Just more blank pages. Cocks don't crow - they spit. A mouse squeaks and the world ends.
No comments:
Post a Comment