Tom Waits - [Trampled Rose]--- He's standing on a silver mountain top, all long flowing hair, shell-shocked eyes, and white flowy Moses beard. He's cradling something in the sleeves of his cloak, and he's caressing it, like a child he found, in the wild. (The Dresden Dolls - [Half Jack (Live)]). He looks down, on us, and sees us, as if for the first time, and we know he doesn't have any idea how long he's been up there. His daughter is 13, now.
He's speaking into the crook of his arm, and whatever he's got in there starts to glow, and pulsate, on a sub-sonic level. I can feel it in my stomach, and my bones are starting to vibrate with the weight of it, and i can't wait anymore. None of us can. We're getting antsy, and upset, now, and everyone's starting to shuffle, nervous. They can't see his eyes, the way i can. I know that, somehow, and that scares me, just a little. But i still have to know. He went inside, so long ago, and now he's back, with... something. The steel and glass are glimmering in the fire light, and sunset, and the holes in the infrastructure look like mouths in the garthering dark. He's still talking to it.
We can feel/hear the low frequency hum, and a higher keen, now, something that sets the teeth on edge, and sends the roaming packs to fits and howls. We feel it sweep through us, a whine like a dentist's drill (we still hear them in our nightmares), and we know that something isn't right. Something's gone all fuck-ways. And that's when he tosses it down.
He sweeps his arms wide, like Charlton Heston grasping his gun against talking monkeys, because a burning bush told him that the food of the future was people. And we see the flood of it, now. (Carmina Burana - [O Fortuna-Fortune Plango Vulnera]). It catches fire, as it loses contact with his robes, and makes contact with the air, and it patters down, and sizzles, slowly enough that we're still confused. They're still confused. When the houses catch fire, no one knows what to do, at first. They're confused, and the smell is what shocks them awake. The smell infects and curls its way into our minds, and we're there, on the ground, screaming, clutching our heads, trying to grasp our minds, and claw them out. Trying not to comprehend.
God has sent him back down and out, to fling Its shit, down upon us. I can't say we don't deserve it.
©Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved.
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