In
turns the house burns by and large by the temple bulged inside a vision of
cause, by blood that became a scab on the home’s security.
The
fuckyards that curbed the industry, the blatant torpedoes of rant and flip, the
woman standing naked in the yard in front of the home. The old codger stooping
to snoop through the window at the woman he sees there, only she’s behind him.
The
breakfast nook, once so stable as to hold potatoes and eggs, now crooked and
cranked to the extreme of the center. Under the table the ruckus seemed like
sneering, snot plopping to the floor where our boy hides, unsure what the plop
in front of him is.
Our
boy’s spruced eyes seem dead to the body that sploshes such fortune, the sputum
of rank and disease. He takes pills to keep these things from creeping further
down his body and outward in a spray. Our boy bashes his head against the top
of the table, merely bumping his father’s fork a little closer to the meat.
Inside
our boy the main protocol is Goldie Hawn. The gnashing of wounds leads to more
wounds and then to more healing, all the better because. His left ankle is
sore, due from the kicking still inside his mother’s belly, and never stopped
kicking, and with nothing to kick against anymore, finds fault in the wind and
that lack hurts all the more.
His
hair now unkempt and still astute, our boy shakes the legs of the table for a
more rabble-rousing approach. He sees more stench fall, in the form of corn
nibblets and piss smelling beer spits. The house now seems lacking in any
channel for liquid escape, down a chute of a waterslide. The bottom-felt window
screams escape. That or a mirror, our boy unable to know as scraps from
scrapes.
With
teeth caved like a crater on the moon, our boy hungers for something other than
what he is given, being given sex and goo and the inside of a tremendous waste,
so much so that he shits bricks of unpleasantness.
Then
the men appear and grab our boy out from under the table and turn him on his
back and forcibly reduce his anus to ashes. With each burn, another bite at the
table is taken, and is swallowed and is slowly digested.
The
men court dismissal, but continue, even contracting a loaf of bread.
Our
boy’s tumult transgress the usual state of dining affairs: he is left bruised on a nearby sofa where he is coddled and rendered content by a news story about a different boy how had
lost an arm but still excelled at basketball.
Outside,
the old codger still sneering at a reflection, hides while the men leave the
house, munching on crumbs now, blowing past the woman standing naked in the
front yard, yacking on about triumph and truth.
The
woman in the front yard lays down and masturbates until the sun comes up, many
hours later.
