Your Tomb Is Just a Waiting Room

Your Tomb Is Just a Waiting Room

A dragon kept to itself for days on end will tend to get swizzlestick drunk with a hunchback and his ugly sister on a barstool conversation for entertainment purposes. When you’re bored enough to sin with hunchbacks, you’re lording over the prime real estate of the mentally challenged. I like to point out here that we have nothing against the mentally challenged. In fact, we like the way they can weed out the nonsense from what’s important fairly early on in the relationship.

We’re huddling by the stove for warmth because it’s the middle of winter and suffering is our lot in life. It could be worse, of course. It could be Detroit! But I was giving away a pasta machine for the one who could clever it out how to keep warm without burning non renewable resources, and I was given something that looked like a wedge with a spoon and a large tiger scooping soup from his whiskers in satisfaction. Job done! Well done! Back to the supermarket with this new fangled invention and we’ll all be millionaires by Columbus Day!

I was telling the Pope every last detail and he warned me about the wages of sin. I figured it was somewhere around $4.30 an hour, but this was before the recession, of course. He was flabbergasted at my generosity and told me to keep the purse strings just a little tighter. No one (not even Him) could tell how long the hard times would last. Best to keep some fat on the hog just in case. Long winters give people a pretty gray outlook, I’m afraid.

A praying mantis was coddling my beard last Saturday and I had it washed just in time for my sentencing. It was going to be held in contempt of court for lodging in my face rent free, but I gave the go-ahead, so no one brought it up again. I had quite a conversation with the whole brood shortly thereafter and we all went out for pizza and pop later in the afternoon. Dinner could be as early as we wanted since the sun went down around noon, anyway. Darkness drinks the dying sun and we’re all playing on the teeter totters where accented laughing boys kick sand in our trousers and call us fat because we’re fat. Imagine that!

I won’t rinse a disorderly pony or cream corn a suitable hijacker that’s got a milk fetish. Am I to judge someone by the color of their moustache? I’m coping with a world gone cad and I’m tapping toes against the keyboard stagecraft mediocre penmanship that dazzles and razzles with the best of them. Send in the clowns so they can be kicked in their ugly, technicolored jowls and we can dance on their broken skulls for the fun of it! A fucking bowler hat could catch the brains! We’ll scoop them up and make clown soup! More soup! Bring in the bowls and set down your spoons! Double helpings for everyone!

Ah, the tears of a clown as I’m kicking him down. I like to imagine that it hurt a lot. A lot, a lot! Double lots! Square rigged ships that hoist us toward a colorful moon up in the sky like a diamond named Neil and his singing face keeps moving, moist lips pressed against the megaphone. Songs are loud, man! The music is deep and soulful. I keep time with the jalopy’s engine sputtering out by the docks. It’ll never ride the road again, but it can keep the music flowing along the waterfront so that all the boats can sing along.

I broadened my horizons to take a peek at the rest of the solar system. It’s a little darker in between than I’d imagined, but the flavors are enormous! The texture on the edge of the bleakscape is so remarkably gritty that you can taste the planets by carving up your mouth and splitting your tongue in two! Blood is the flavor of the universe! Behold its pulsing life force streaming through the void and into the pressure pipes inside of us all. You’re invited to remain with us until the end, when the orchestra plays us off and it won’t be a mournful tune. No such thing as an ending at all. Happy or sad, it’s what we’re made of. Alive in the tombs (they’re only waiting rooms), we bask in the essence of eternity. Now and forever. Never and all’s ever. Clever until the end!

Bemoan no one for their suffering, because we’ve all been there. We’ll all be there again. So say we to the forsooth of it all! Keep the blood pumping and the surf to a dull minimum. You’ll need those ears for later! Later, potato. It won’t be before the nothing time for terror’s rolling nemesis is everything and everyone.

[Photo by Allie Caulfield]

About Robert Glen Fogarty

Sometimes I'll take the wrong bus just to get out of the cold for a little while.

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