duck… duck… duck… duck gooose!

jangle jangle jangle, man. watch those keyrows jangle. feel that outworn notion just slip into a pile of… fruitbars. i said, yes. yes. just keep on feeding those… ducks. watch their little feet curl up in joy… ha ha! fooled you little ducks… no bread for you.

so then the ducks just swim to the other side, where another one waits, expectantly, with a handful of brea–but oh! see how quick that one stuffs all the bread into its mandibles! hee hee! watch the little ducks cry their little duck tears, swimming round and round (fluffling their little duck feathers and just watch that water slide off there! neat!) and watching all the ones with hard eyes and mouthfuls of bread.

what am i saying? am i saying anything? oh, probably not.

words falling like ducks from the sky

i never thought to see the death-knell of this country; the long slow death-rattle and thatter-thump of crooked heels tatt-tattering the pavement, as that small heart bursts its outer confines and grieves out the ears and noses;

the cracking out of falsely servile poses.

by hook or by crook and all that is in between.

i have no words to speak but i must scream.

and watch the fail of heaven’s promised rain upon the parched and scattered earth, feel that seared and quaking ground heave up, expel the loathesome carabuncles from off its shore.

i thought to see a brief surcease from watching that slow decline and fall; but to see the ignomy of empire, in all its seediness, cloak itself about the thing to hide its shriveled loins. well. for some, at least, the last scales have fallen from the eyes, the fizzling smoke and mirrors fade away, to see, with bitter dread, the creaking machine that croaks and craves for blood to feed its frenzy.

perhaps the myth was ever thus, a broken claptrap horse dressed up in gaudy finery. but now, at least for me, the last threads of finery have fallen away. do i see it now for what it is? am i awake, at last, from my pale slumber, to see the clouds of nightmare brooding in the sky? or perhaps i only stir, fall deeper into sleep.

i have no heart to find the silver in this woe, paint it how you will. what hope, when all that falls is steaming blood and ash? and i partake, against my will or heart, in the slaughtering of thousands who have done me no wrong, but who i wrong, by simply being who and where i am.

the city on the hill has guttered out.