The Wax Conspiracy

Hypnotist waving around the eclipse behind the cloud

Fine grains of sand find themselves deep under the eyelids, warding against evils of sight and the subsequent tricks on the mind.

Everybody is the enemy!

Curses toward their nature, living as they do breathing and running into the very backside of death. Death need not turn around for being on the lazy Susan has its advantages. Pass the salad dressing. Make it a ranch for the Mexicans do not exist in this plain of culinary drizzle.

Unto the hairs on the back comb out lies and deception, made real as lice and ticks are eager to pleasure. Ticks of which only mark spots of red. Tiny dots with a case of squatting. Or spotting. Or knotting. Not nothing and cussing. Swear by the power of Grayskull with a loincloth in the split. Fashion is a victim of the wearers of clothes. Blind to their own mirrors; rubbing no more salt under their eyes than grains of sands with lime.

Suns and moons phase in and wax out. Taking hands on the left they wash away palms of the right. Into the night, waiting for the light. For the light is the next best thing to the truth. And when the next best thing to truth is another capsule of vision, there is only one more reach to find a vision home.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 1 August 2007

The Wax Conspiracy


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