The Wax Conspiracy

Painted dolls for all the cows

Drifting off sleep, careful of the surrounds. Keeping eye on nearby objects, obstacles and other things. Falling away into the magical land of unconsciousness. Not so bad when with the right twist of rug burning and neck rubbing. On a plain of barren dirt, the luxury unfound. No plantation wears more naked grass than the desert wannabe.

Man eating cows are not sexist. They discriminate not between the three genders on the buffet. Each limb is as tasty as the next. So long as no leprosy or scabies touch their meals, it's all good. No judgements, no dealings. No fair warnings either in waking up their next platter of bones, meat and hair.

Slow gnaw and spit with the gums and teeth chewing away at the feet. A start to the morning. Top of the bottom to you and the beef's getting it's own back. Taking a spit of saliva and working the toe nails into submission.

No, no, no.

Nothing of the sort and bother here. Nothing doing just doing nothing. To each their own to eat their own. Take a foot hold in the mouth. Run around the gnash and eat hearty from the ankle up, deep from the waist to the neck. Milk it for all it's worth, milk it all out from the suckle of the teats. Squeezing and squeezing for a cup to digest with.

Down goes the cattle. And nothing remains but the bones and moustache of white liquid.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 19 December 2007

The Wax Conspiracy


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