The Wax Conspiracy

Three seasons and an empty promise

Bested by wanton youths, the elder state of mother nature toddles many well-wronged phrases of her intestinal fortitude. Many such phrases now co-opted by the marketing departments of war and raggedy bohemians in need of a good scrubbing.

Sulfur springs

Or the sulphur dawn, heads round the seasonal corner of one year from the rectum of last and brings with it the nasty rumblings of discontent. Discontent often heard in the chills of winter. But, the spring has nothing to do with a winter, turning its pock-marked back on it.

Sulfur springs actually allude to the expunging of toxic for a welcome new. Wherein many eggs and newborns succumb to the crushing reality that not all are winners. The stench breaking the air is the mixing of birth and rotting death underfoot. Fly away pretties, to the sea, to the sea.

Now you'll find retirees and new age enthusiasts huffing rotten eggs and handing over their wallets and deeds for a bit of therapeutic bathing.

Indian summer

Over the crest of heat sings of the familiar chirps of mynah birds which finds itself recursive. Often attributed to the slaying of the indigenous North Americans robbed of their buffalo, and indeed their entire existence, bar reservations on the grounds of trashy casinos.

No coincidence then that the ink which is as pitching as it is stark black, a constant reminder of the mar and blind-lit light of history.

Today it's laying waste once more to a false or contra-perceptive summer as autumn creeps its leery head, afoul of nature's eczema. Again, throwing back the hurt in the face of those already wiped out by the thumping of divine providence.

Taciturn autumn

It is as it does. Very little. Bridging the expanse of unrest and listlessness between the hotter and colder seasons. An ill-defined period of defeat. Waiting for the commencement of one and the start of another. Much like any other season, which themselves steep between the worlds of tomorrow and yesterday.

On such august moons, it breeds an incredible amount of duplicity. It marks a period in one's life when they face their demons and vices and stare at the mirror of their soul, wrestling with the option of continuing down the harrow or stepping into the bitter reality that is waking up and walking away from its lactiferous lips.

The phrase is little heard in today's parlance.

Nuclear winter

Falling out and headlong with a hammer and tongs, a winter of death and under eternal cloud of long ago to forevermore.

Born of the splitting of hairs and sinking of atoms, it's a sterile and stereotypical nothingness of the figureheads lording over the inhabitants. This is where the "nuclear family" gets their name. Never mind that, however, as the question of great import is, "Where is their mail?"

Today it's a promise unkept. Ready for the eventual turn of the pond.

Ethan Switch

Written on Tuesday, 14 September 2010

The Wax Conspiracy

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