I
I haven't eaten that will come to life. Unbroiled and raw the dark meat is waiting
to be alive again. There is no question of a soul when you are talking about the
uneaten dark meat coming to life. The soul needs to be held in by skin, and this
raw dark meat has no skin. Even the fat has been stripped away. I will break the
vertabrae one crack at a time. I will worry my fingers with the darkest of meat
until my breaking fingers are freed of their unnatural inner light, and my little
soul will be bonded and alive in the darkest place of the dark dark meat. Don't
be mad at him, he is clever and wise and he would never loose his soul in the
skinless dark meat because he will have eaten it long ago. The dark meat as become
him and then died a million little deaths, long before my soul leaked out like
a strange gas that did not know of the natural laws. This little soul, that is
not missed, is in all the meat, the darkest meat, that is wandering the earth
looking for itself.
Out on the frozen plain the monsterous dark meat cries for
love and the worried hands fall off to the side in an expression of despair. "It
can not continue" moans the litlle soul of the dark meat "It must end" something
that was never broken before has been turned upside down and vigorously shaken.The
lamb is bleeding on the cross and the dark meat is laughing. The joke is not in
any languge that can be spoken. It is a deadly joke that can not be heard except
by the dark meat and even then only before the unnatural gasp of the little soul
cannot have come across. Only then will the peals of laughter ring like broken
bells across the face of the skinless dark dark meat. The rancid butter and the
darkness of the meat that is come to life have been planning for the new soul
of light. The broken thing is not afraid of the dark dark meat. The broken thing
has become the dark dark meat. In a magic fairy tale all the little dark meat
has had a broken dream made of dust and the blood of childhood diseases, but the
story didn't rhyme and the gates were never open. So the sad dark meat waiited
in a field of sharp thorns for the story to come to an end, but it never did.
The snow began to fall and still the lonely sad dark dark meat had to wait for
the gate that would never open. High above in a plastic dolls head, heaven was
being created by the gas of the little soul. This heaven was not for meat it was
for the broken dreams of lovers. When the broken dreams went to this plastic doll
heaven they were shaken like clocks on the end of a long long string. The hands
of these little dream clocks would softly knead the flesh of the dream until the
dark meat was torn by thorns. The gears of these little dream clocks would be
covered with rancid butter and strips of fat from the darkest meat. These little
dream clocks would swing and shake at the end of long strings and finally the
sad litlle dream clocks would break against the eyes of the plastic doll. The
shattered eye of the plastic doll would dream a new heaven of hair and blood and
the broken dream clocks would become the tiny tears in the dark dark meat. One
step at a time the palace of meat is climbing itself. One step at a time the darkest
meat in the palace of blood and hair rises within itself to become the dream of
an unbroken clock that will never be wound. The bell of the unbroken clock is
made from the teeth of old horses. The breath of the ancient horses has been used
to warm the shatered eye of the plastic doll of heaven. The broken clock is pounding
in the chest of the dark meat that is waiting in the snow. It is cying and wants
to nurse on hair and blood, but the gate wil never crack. I will not cut the darkest
meat for I would only then loose my soul. The plastic doll is trapped in heaven
with the bad bad man. The bad bad man is made of springs and has always eaten
the darker meat. His eyes are made of glue and his face is stuck to the wall of
the palace of meat. In his chest there is no clock but only a long string made
of hair, blood, and scales of fish that were hooked but never eaten. The bad bad
man will never be happy until he has eaten the plastic dolls shattered eyes. He
wants to own the dream of the loney torn meat and make a heaven from the pain.
The broken clock and the bad bad man have been paid by the gate to make new eyes
for the dark dark meat. The gate cannot be seen with eyes of glue. The eyes of
glue are made of clocks on long strings that hang from the palace of meat. The
clock breaking hammer is made from thorns and the thorns are made of blood and
hair that has been died bright orange. The frog in the bottom of the cup is licking
the blood from the longest string. The cup is a heaven that the frog cannot see
because his eyes are made of thorns. The hammer is looking for the dark dark meat
in the palace of broken light, but the maiden will not dance for the thief. The
hammer will have to break the clock. The clock is filled with dreams and the dreams
are made of heaven on long strings. The dark dark meat dreams of the plastic doll,
but the hammer will break the dream. First it breaks the clock and then the wild
hammer swings down and breaks the dream of the dark dark meat. I have paid for
strings and I have paid for the cup but I have not paid for the hair and blood
that are trapped in the wall of the palace of heaven. The angels are impatiently
waiting for the lost dark meat. They are smoking cigarettes and coughing while
they wait. One angel carelessly ignites the wings of another when she is lighting
the next cigarette and the angels wings are all on fire. They are flying through
a field of broken clocks with their wings on fire when the strings start spewing
gasoline. The gasoline is filled with sugar and the angels are dreaming of honey
that is smeared over the dark dark meat. The firery angel wings are dreams of
the heaven of dark meat and the dark meat is slowly being covered with the ashes
from the burning angel wings. The desperate angels are kissing the broken clocks
and they have cut their tounges on the broken glass. The severed tounges of the
flaming angels are speaking of the dreams of meat, but in the other heaven the
frog cannot hear the words. The maiden lifts her dress and the thief plays the
hornpipe and the sad dark meat is still waiting by the gate for the angels to
give him a cigarette. The dark dark meat is smoking a cigarette made of blood
and broken clocks and the angels are eating dirt with their hands. The angel hands
were broken by the hammer when it tried to smash the cup, but the frog could not
taste the melted wax and fat made by the dark dark meat. The bad bad man has sawn
away the carcas of the ancient horse looking for the darkest meat. His hairy hands
are covered with blood, but the blood is not only red, it is also yellow and black.
His lungs are full of ash from the burning wings of angels and he chokes on the
multicolored blood that runs down his chest. Some of the clocks are now on fire
and his hands are also burning. His hair is falling on the plate and mixing with
the ancient multicolored horse blood. It magically twists on its own and is turning
into strings to hold the some of the broken clocks from burning. The sad dark
meat is going home to the slicing machine. Across the field of burning broken
clocks he is wandering to the room of bottle caps that are named after childhood
diseases. The severed tounges of angels are speaking dreams of heaven and more
frogs are falling from the sky along the ropes of hair and ancient horse blood.
The time is broken by the flaming clocks and the shattered plastic doll eyes are
filled with dirt. Blood is running down the walls of the palace of meat as the
bad bad man looks across the whirlpool of blood. The broken clocks are singing
the songs of angels. These won't be mailed to you, but your messege will be mailed to me