Blursed Country
The Buc'ees Beaver speaks.
liar liar, concertina wire jellied fuel and creeping fire pink and foaming surging bile sickle-scythed from one end to the other friend to no child and no mother and all along these great highways hooves rumble and whine flicking hot spittle and bleeding sides cylinders tumbling and fumbling in time choking down smoke every internal combustion engine runs on toxic sludge and hope alone because concertina wire, alive in fire only ever feel alive in fire throw away the best cuts give them back to entropy burn a shoulder blade for hours to read the augury of embers it says every cell burns from within burns the fuel you bring within ethanol or oxygen alive in fire fermentation respiration alive in fire and by the way you say bless your heart in a versatile way kinda hedge that niceness into politeness i say bless your heart like i invented sneaky sarcasm like someone died and made me The Lord of Flies in a terrible clerical error i was there when the old magic was written i was there when brethren was stricken from the lexicon when niceness burst open swollen in the green slime summer like a heart clogged shut with bergs of extinction gristle like a ripe basketball stuffed with ricotta cheese For you have made a winery by the highway by the world’s largest frying pan by the hog waste spraying spite robots filling neighbor's lungs with inverse love but then as below then so above as fire travels uphill just fine to kiss the flavors of the vine there are things stranger than Death and Older than Saturn under these low hills i was there when the Old Gods stopped broadcasting curses and blessings to die deathless and become roadside attractions. they say when the constellations find their stations the gas pump tump tumps in time with the twisting of dead stars they say the bronze Buc’ees Beaver speaks and madness leaks around his teeth he says he’s doing fine He says we’re running out of time. for you have come upon a shaded place in lethal heat only to tear it down and so deny the enemy shelter and you have come upon an aid table for those who thirst to cut the bottles up with craft knives and that which cannot die lies slain and now it gibbers in the fetid mire liar liar, concertina wire jellied fuel and creeping fire pink and foaming surging bile sickle-scythed from one end to the other friend to no child and no mother so bless your heart so far apart so high above reproach i hope this letter finds you well i hope the butcher’s bill won’t swell there’s only so much karmic shit one life can absorb, oh well.