Percy’s Lament

by jerrontables

It was never really fully understood. Do it or don’t. Mutter the won’t. It wasn’t like the good ol’ days. It never would be. They used to strike while the iron was hot. Now they cool it off themselves and sit on it. Sit around the small talk and congratulate one another on good promises and futures well fanned. Save the baby. Force feed the whales. Jam slam crammit–just suckle the hams.

Kittens without spines. Tiny furred snakes. Limbs. Cutting through the grass. Chasing yarnballs on yarnbellies. Pretending to bite your hand. Limp in the extremeties.

It still isn’t understood. Less so than then. Every day the crashmen come. Hob and knob when the mind wears off. Injections of convenience. Disease. Space ages to wage worge. To burn from the inside. Tiny individual spots. Firestarters. Fire feeders. Pigeon eadders.

A gulfed a flamed. A gulfed a flamed.

Percy never had none. Committed. Two fly boys and a pastry stamp. No good for the worse. You think you got problems. Problems got a long way–forget it. You probably don’t even know what a thunder bug is.

 

Spine wrenching happiness installed the wrong way. A baker’s few.

 

Like you never thought. Like you never thought.

 

The acrid smell of sulphers. The smokes. Pwfff. One by one by one. Nightlights and nursery flares. Call to the wild. Call to the somesones for do something.

I cannot.

 

My hair is on fire.

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