Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Category 5 creation myth

Hurricane is on its way, dear. Grass between our toes whispering, rolling and cresting so we may drown in no more beautiful a starlit country picnic. Tattered and checkered ship sail. Insane with moon salt and Cabernet, thirstier with each sip. My dear mate, afloat under redshift glitter sequins on Tiamat's dress the color of dragon's smoke.  Marduk creeps through oak leaves rustling as we split our mothers down the middle, and spill their guts across our smiles. Clink chalices and sink our fangs into sandwiches. Tear them to God-damned shreds and cackle as madmen do. Chill air reds your cheeks, lifts your hair, electricity in the sky, and we may lose our lunatic shrieking voices in all the thunder. For soon the clouds are here, and they are pregnant with grief and disdain. And oh how we mock fragile grief by laughing and drinking in the rise of flood.