In turns the house burns by and large by the temple bulged inside a vision of cause, by blood that became a scab on the home’s security.
The fuckyards that curbed the industry, the blatant torpedoes of rant and flip, the woman standing naked in the yard in front of the home. The old codger stooping to snoop through the window at the woman he sees there, only she’s behind him.
The breakfast nook, once so stable as to hold potatoes and eggs, now crooked and cranked to the extreme of the center. Under the table the ruckus seemed like sneering, snot plopping to the floor where our boy hides, unsure what the plop in front of him is.
Our boy’s spruced eyes seem dead to the body that sploshes such fortune, the sputum of rank and disease. He takes pills to keep these things from creeping further down his body and outward in a spray. Our boy bashes his head against the top of the table, merely bumping his father’s fork a little closer to the meat.
Inside our boy the main protocol is Goldie Hawn. The gnashing of wounds leads to more wounds and then to more healing, all the better because. His left ankle is sore, due from the kicking still inside his mother’s belly, and never stopped kicking, and with nothing to kick against anymore, finds fault in the wind and that lack hurts all the more.
His hair now unkempt and still astute, our boy shakes the legs of the table for a more rabble-rousing approach. He sees more stench fall, in the form of corn nibblets and piss smelling beer spits. The house now seems lacking in any channel for liquid escape, down a chute of a waterslide. The bottom-felt window screams escape. That or a mirror, our boy unable to know as scraps from scrapes.
With teeth caved like a crater on the moon, our boy hungers for something other than what he is given, being given sex and goo and the inside of a tremendous waste, so much so that he shits bricks of unpleasantness.
Then the men appear and grab our boy out from under the table and turn him on his back and forcibly reduce his anus to ashes. With each burn, another bite at the table is taken, and is swallowed and is slowly digested.
The men court dismissal, but continue, even contracting a loaf of bread.
Our boy’s tumult transgress the usual state of dining affairs: he is left bruised on a nearby sofa where he is coddled and rendered content by a news story about a different boy how had lost an arm but still excelled at basketball.
Outside, the old codger still sneering at a reflection, hides while the men leave the house, munching on crumbs now, blowing past the woman standing naked in the front yard, yacking on about triumph and truth.
The woman in the front yard lays down and masturbates until the sun comes up, many hours later.