Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The thing walked the moons acid shore and it pissed. It did it because the alcohol that was within was knocking to get out and it was sad.
So much that it then hardened and, well, then a bead of clear honesty seeped into and yawned out of its body.
It wanted something else.
This alien, this thing, it then looked down and it saw what it was pissing upon. A gentle scoop of time hammered porcelain, the hole into which we all purge that which distils within our gut.
A toilet. The necessary room.
Some filthy yellow bowl in a stall. I scratched my lips, as is done in search of wishes that are sought that resemble fervent prayer.
Would you like for me to tell you just what lay at these feet? To tell you just what it was at my war dusted toes?
You don’t, but I will.
Actually you do, I am sorry that I speak on your behalf. But, I know your kind. The quiet nothing of space and trickster time suckles, does it not?
It, this lost and dirtied thing.
It was, I say was, but… she still very much is – a woman.
She now wedged into a bouquet of broken sticks and sheared off things frosted in bits of plastic.
In a fucking gutter.
Her eyes are glass and her mouth is a pit of glue and broken crunchy things.
I pissed but this stream of twisting sour that drilled into her face it had words. I recall, as I did arch my back and plunge into the moment.
I’m going to back away just now and head off to bed, sleep it off. Add another day to this disintegration disgust of just what I am.
It’s not easy. I can smell.
I can smell the desecration.
Fumes like callipers where legs should be.
But I’ll flip my pillow and try and catch its coldest edge.
I don’t want to see her flesh as it drapes atop the lighthouse and crumples and stretches in the gust any more.
Who pisses on the dead?
Probably never happened.
My planet is dead. We failed us all.