The Wax Conspiracy

Future head borrowed a gun, refused to die

Drool hardy, drool fast and drool with the intent to peer back into the swill of the past. For the fermenting is all that the saliva will come good for and there is nothing that sweat will break. Stew it broken in the broth made with the wings and legs of the birds captured by the sun. Tasty is their meat, wretched be the beaks that jam in and craw a crow call.

Back into the corner, where there are only three walls and no ceiling to hold, the red paint stinks as it sticks to the feet and soles. Souls of which burn in the heat of stomping out the juice that makes more of the paint. Clearly not the best of paint, the hue fades and blackens hours after application.

They should ask for a refund. If only the can barter with more than the spit in their hands which seals deals.

No way out except for the door that stands between the past and the future. Choice is yours and the run toward the glint is only ever a second too late when the feet take that first toe.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 24 January 2007

The Wax Conspiracy

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