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Earth Worm on Concrete
In Words: 8:15 a.m., 7/30/16
The observer marveled at the osprey, swooping down with its shrill call as it beat wings against a fishy burden, his mate perched on the great stick nest above the ball field lights, the young beaks to the sky, returning his call in their own lesser way.
The estuary heat was not yet oppressive, the traffic not yet choking the corridor-like road with fumes, the grocer behind not yet bustling with the unquenchable hunger of the simpering dead, shouldering aside the tiny remnant of Humanity as they cannibalized the forest of ideas that had spawned them.
The observer breathed in the nearly liquid and not yet filthy air—and she was there, sucking the limp stick of death, pinching her blubbery face, in a race to sag like a hag, choking the thick air with the expelled breathe which scrubbed none of the well-deserved sorrow from her dysgenic form.
Not tall enough to soar, not short enough to endear, her butchered hair bespoke a need to exceed her gender—the face both pinched, pudgy and unsure—even as her body strained at the emerald-green, elastic cage of skirt and halter, clinging to her once inseminary purpose.
The observer vacated the space, like a villager making way for Death as she spread her wicked wings. Waddling with a morbid grace, she replaced the observer as he escaped to the far side of the dirty, plastic panel, shunning her noxious emissions as he turned away forever in mind from her inverting face and the sinking carnival of her kind.
She stood for a moment, pondering the escaping observer upon stumps of fleshy legs emblazoned with the angst-spew tattoos of a recent youth, her weight still far short of its spilling potential, the veins in her pale legs making a field of spidery corruption upon which the graffiti of a twisted world looked ever back at itself, finally terminating in flattening flesh-pedals unequal to their ambulatory task.
She sat with a sigh, thirty vapid years spreading over her like sand blown over a tomb.
The pale worm of a worn earth wriggled in its polyester cocoon, a chrysalis from which nothing but shrill complaint might ever flutter forth.
Your Trojan Horse
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