THE ASS END
John Samson
THE ASS END of a 2-person costume
Out floating, we receive a distress call. Cries go unnoticed. Wells are tainted. Regiments fragmented, the stars do not care. The herds are on the move. You forgot my birthday, you know. The illusory nature of things is lifted. What never existed is dying out in number. The dream had ended. How exactly does one come to dominance, what is the shape of it. We were once all snakes, all fish. Stalking through reeds, poised. I am staring at Quetzalcoatl, He has come to us. Two worlds, standing, scrutinizing the fates. Grendel's shadow. Bring the rest, fill the boats. Grand percussion solo; cannonfire, fireworks. Horseless, you say. Best to wear a mask. Returning fire from beneath trenches. Moldy cheese. Horseless, for everyone. What’d ya find, there, Biff? Black stuff, says Biff. Violent nationalism; fanged, horned creature on the loose. There was something dearly wrong with those pigeons. It takes ten officers to finally take him down. They’ve broken into the house now, sacking everything. I ready my gun. And so we scorch the earth today. Then we play golf slowly, take pictures in funny suits. Don’t touch that dial. A grand, methodical spoiling of children. A small step. Paperwork crimes; masked men with flashlights in a hotel room. Increased market penetration, increased sales, increased earnings for fiscal year. Download your persona, download yourself. Unleash your power. 7 cents an hour. International business of politics. At the age of five, carving cardboard automatics, young dog of war. Watch the news, in horror. The day the crystal cracked. The dream has ended. Tomorrow, once good as canned peaches. Dead cities. Remember what it was like; smiles, makeup, well-lit photography. Let us lance the earth as an act of vengeance. Tomorrow not generally a bringer of fine things. They have taken over. No radio, no telephone, no water, no power. We, the scavengers. What’d ya find, there, Bill? Whatever ‘they’ are. It’s an old walkman, says Bill. March the desert, day 1. Still works and everything. We are on a bridge. Return fire from the rooftops, they are all coming at once. We are unique. Pull the pin, push down hard on the clutch, safety off. Hurling themselves toward us with supernatural speed. Open fire. We are alone. Arts and sciences, anthropology, mathematics. Make our way, find a way. Something is gone in them. The band is playing. He’s dead, we couldn’t save him. Lost, you look up at night. We stay where we are, try not to draw attention. You look up. They do not care, out there. We are running low, she is not doing well. Look up at night. They sit up there and watch us, laughing. We are compact. Are they like us? We are unique. Do they walk on two legs? We are all in a line.
THE ASS END of a 2-person costume
Out floating, we receive a distress call. Cries go unnoticed. Wells are tainted. Regiments fragmented, the stars do not care. The herds are on the move. You forgot my birthday, you know. The illusory nature of things is lifted. What never existed is dying out in number. The dream had ended. How exactly does one come to dominance, what is the shape of it. We were once all snakes, all fish. Stalking through reeds, poised. I am staring at Quetzalcoatl, He has come to us. Two worlds, standing, scrutinizing the fates. Grendel's shadow. Bring the rest, fill the boats. Grand percussion solo; cannonfire, fireworks. Horseless, you say. Best to wear a mask. Returning fire from beneath trenches. Moldy cheese. Horseless, for everyone. What’d ya find, there, Biff? Black stuff, says Biff. Violent nationalism; fanged, horned creature on the loose. There was something dearly wrong with those pigeons. It takes ten officers to finally take him down. They’ve broken into the house now, sacking everything. I ready my gun. And so we scorch the earth today. Then we play golf slowly, take pictures in funny suits. Don’t touch that dial. A grand, methodical spoiling of children. A small step. Paperwork crimes; masked men with flashlights in a hotel room. Increased market penetration, increased sales, increased earnings for fiscal year. Download your persona, download yourself. Unleash your power. 7 cents an hour. International business of politics. At the age of five, carving cardboard automatics, young dog of war. Watch the news, in horror. The day the crystal cracked. The dream has ended. Tomorrow, once good as canned peaches. Dead cities. Remember what it was like; smiles, makeup, well-lit photography. Let us lance the earth as an act of vengeance. Tomorrow not generally a bringer of fine things. They have taken over. No radio, no telephone, no water, no power. We, the scavengers. What’d ya find, there, Bill? Whatever ‘they’ are. It’s an old walkman, says Bill. March the desert, day 1. Still works and everything. We are on a bridge. Return fire from the rooftops, they are all coming at once. We are unique. Pull the pin, push down hard on the clutch, safety off. Hurling themselves toward us with supernatural speed. Open fire. We are alone. Arts and sciences, anthropology, mathematics. Make our way, find a way. Something is gone in them. The band is playing. He’s dead, we couldn’t save him. Lost, you look up at night. We stay where we are, try not to draw attention. You look up. They do not care, out there. We are running low, she is not doing well. Look up at night. They sit up there and watch us, laughing. We are compact. Are they like us? We are unique. Do they walk on two legs? We are all in a line.