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It's What You Do

de Orgone

The joyless parson wallows in his inadequate shrine: a slanted, yellow dungeon a face zambonied into submission, disfigured by rapid snow and penetrating sunlight with tender, gray eyes, an uninhabited moon, harassed by flurries of wind which whirl and flash their gums,
reveal their genie biceps to proclaim victory over a senseless, vacant enemy.

The head which hangs below his form, is a mouth stuffed full of frisbees, rendered mute. The contaminated air which enters his nostrils, escapes through the stem of his neck, so his cells are breathless, sustained unwillingly by a contemptuous life-giver who remains
forever unwanted.

In the light of twisted stars, he walks on conjoined arms, to the auction of souls where devotees in the regalia of mites, circulate their treason to new generations perform the pantomime, branding initiates with energetic impressions engravings of sorrow, the fresh
man's shadow: the mark of the butchers guild absorbing essence into the pillars of a marshland palace, forever unanimated.

In denial of their black-box scrying, he plunges into visions of calm pastures where porches are caressed by growing, limitless grass, which flirt with, then shatter gaugeless heating meters. He tumbles headlong into the jagged shadows of tropical trees, to fluidly
tremble in the sand, discover deep, unending sleep and fantastic lies well worth repeating.

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