30:30 2014, Day 29
New Kicks
The fiend catches scent of the next marsh, leather and jungle and saline and sun. Obsidian hands hack through vine like a cartoon cyclone. In the clearing, calm. The fiend pads down the dock in soft pauses, the future like a line for the Space Mountain. At the edge he dandles his feet in the pool, sways his toes like ten baitfish dancing. A pair of rainbow cormorants glide up and gently swallow his feet, and for a while he flies. A peasant song says he has killed men caught between a blue pond and desire. To the birds he is the egg again: heat and homemaker, fragile passenger and grateful world. Then, sudden as love, the drumbeat of want. He frees them like a mother packing an army trunk. No more scraps from his plate, no more plumes stroked soft with a toothbrush. All a fiend can do is want the next thing.
The fiend catches scent of the next marsh, leather and jungle and saline and sun. Obsidian hands hack through vine like a cartoon cyclone. In the clearing, calm. The fiend pads down the dock in soft pauses, the future like a line for the Space Mountain. At the edge he dandles his feet in the pool, sways his toes like ten baitfish dancing. A pair of rainbow cormorants glide up and gently swallow his feet, and for a while he flies. A peasant song says he has killed men caught between a blue pond and desire. To the birds he is the egg again: heat and homemaker, fragile passenger and grateful world. Then, sudden as love, the drumbeat of want. He frees them like a mother packing an army trunk. No more scraps from his plate, no more plumes stroked soft with a toothbrush. All a fiend can do is want the next thing.
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