The Wax Conspiracy

Hallucinate standing here, standing near

Receding hare lines and the rabbits in suit take eggs from one end of the lot to the other, offering only as much as bearing the weight of dozens will allow. Cold is the air and in here, there is nothing close to warmth save for the slit opening the entrails to cover from head to toe. Warm is the death of another and that rules the way of the land, it is the way things work and the way things are.

Taking comfort in the comforter is of an effort in moderation. For food only is so much as a starvation away, the slight hint, a casual whiff of meat and the jaws relax to open again gnawing planes of teeth. Ground down from the top of the crown, looking only to erode away into the juicy morsels of gums. And chewing is a perspiration away from gentle sucking on the nerves fraying wildly about from the coexistence of the non-existent.

Greedily to the swathing slash of the body within and accept visions splendour of dirt in soil and clouds in the air. Where the mind races freely back and forth between that of a state of blue into a resting rate of metallic sheen.

They will stop and ask no more to lick the back of toads for the frogs will beg their turn.

Clearly there is much to do and much to see when there is nothing to do or anything to actually see. Paradox of the mind and a reflective curve balances out on the whim, on the limb and on the wind.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 20 June 2007

The Wax Conspiracy

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