пятніца, 14 снежня 2007 г.

2.2 The Parable of the Picnic

by Father Humour

It started when we were children
as it always does.
I hated her.
But in the narcotic haze of a green
and false field, we sat, in the pollen
and chewed our bread.

The yellow and green seeped into the
food. The intense, powdery claustrophobia
crept into my nose and throat and
strangled me. I died. I choked.

But I still sat neatly, quietly smiling
pretending it was all good.

I rammed my fist down my throat,
when I got home, still suffering from
the torment of peace and quiet.
I pulled out the bread, but still
could not breathe. I reached and
gasped and belched and wheezed.
I wretched as I thrust my fist
further and further.

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