Figureheads stand at the end, all hands between the loaves of bread. Made from the wheat of raw fabric and fired in the kilns made by the Dutch as sewn with the spit of the drunken galley. Holes from the inside, eating on the outside, and condiments made of pus only taste as sweet as the sale of human flesh into the slavery of entertainment.
Knock back a head, looking skyward, and the white powders in clouds make them scream aplenty. Yowls they will, yowling and howling with arms wide open and robes cast aside. No fear for the righteous, no clothes for the naked.
Before the sunshine of another day and into the waters of mud, where names fall in and never seem to rise up again. White clouds fluffy and free make excuses to part the waves and sing the songs that make beds and tables fold with each clasping of the hands.
Written on Wednesday, 16 May 2007