Monday, June 11, 2007

Bogart an Apartheid

Faces like noble wolves, held to granite altars by oxblood boot straps, fangs snubbed short by guillotine-style cigar cutters, cowlick Mohawks scalped off, eyes died blue.
Dazed zombies emerge from the dungeons and caves to work the fields...
A coxcomb Cyclops sun eats through cotton-filled ears, apocalypse blizzards cut muscles clean from bones. Primordial forests still haunted by the ghosts of druids and dryads hold hordes of renegade trolls, muskets in their claws, bandannas over nose-holes, black blood in iron pots over cinders and coals. Ironwood crosses and hangmen stockades line the road to new Roma,infidels stung-up on telephone poles, ribcages exposed.

In a nearby culvert, the sewer rat grips a water-logged dictionary in his Darwined fingers. The nicotine black hole in his starving arm is nearly as large as his heavy eyes, so the pen must still be wet. Gas masks always fit better when you’re starving.

Crushed turtles shells dust the Oysterman’s fingers. Frog’s blood runs through those hard plastic tubes in his thighs and neck. The fish slime doesn’t ever really come off; it just dries in crystals that hug the skin. Eggs come in strings and sacs and shells, but they all slide down your throat like a warm, yolky, pre-Cambrian afterbirth. They all settle in your stomach, a lubricated membrane in rich, tepid quicksand.

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