The Coroner Struck a Match

Shall we not just take a moment to talk? To connect distemporally and snatch these repeated instances from the viscous pour of infinity, a sludge haul down a complicated sequence of iron pipes, forged in the lateral veins of our sun. Who does the talking, and who does the listening? While I list off to sleep, I could have sworn I had something to say.

From lips that refute the validity of the ego, or the id for that matter, the super-ego who watches them all, observing until the rare moment arrive where she must flick the switch and take control of the reins. We shall steer vigorously toward the amygdalin bulbs watch. It can tick and it will tock, but in the time it takes to compose a word, another has already fallen mute in retreat. All the things, the words and tangents that could have molded into something spectacular, majestic and mightily magical in its own perpetration. But these instead. The discard pile of dead soldiers mucked in mud, someone get the grimmest of reapers to come and unsow the world. She spikes a titillated snort in a spume of milk. Was it chocolate?

Some detect a merriment in fight, the consequential rising of nations with braziers of fists, but others make apologies of excuse, the rebuttal had in the Socratic Squad, chums to the nipple-biting end, kicking, screaming and cocking one another, bludgeoned with semen that wasn’t their own, just a smoldering soup of circumstantial wariness. The vizier tickles the worn medallion, as if he could give it more pleasure than it gave him.

“The Queueking will see you now.” Jimothy resaddles his dongle ‘twixt horseshoe posture. “I reckon I have somethin’ ta say ta her!”

“It is not a she, it’s an it.” Jimothy slaps an open thigh at the hilarity. “It! Har! Kin you believe it? Thinks it’s an it!”

The vizier, enwittened over many instantiations, has grown dreadfully tired of such vapid squawking. “It is a comprehensive integrated plural. It is among the highest forms of address. Your befuddled baby shark brain must orient itself with such inprecious dualities. How pitiful.”

“Got that right, missy!” accompanies a slap on the robed back of the vizier, now growing increasingly red with all the expected emotions attached to a flushing. 

“Don’t worry, thar. Earth’s been good ta us, fellar, and we aim to do right by her!” followed by a performative inhaled snort “What with the ‘her’ and all.”


“Aw, c’mon, now! A feller gotta do what a feller got a do, up in these har parts.”


“Aww, shucks then—You need me ta give you a learnin’?”


“Guatemala Gatorade, Goddammit! Sit right down and you’ll hear a tale of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers…”

{Or: How the Patriarchy’s Vest Was Worn}