They're washing up on shore, gutted with holes from air-pressured kid rifles, patterned and smoothed over like shale, bloated as sharks. The government or governing bodies are responsible, or at least that's the claim in the news that's screened onto fibers of pulp.
Hark believes this, buys in, and starts a campaign. He makes buttons and signs, draws up petitions and pleas. He licks many stamps, to the point his tongue sours and aches.
Jamaica polarizes. She rails against Hark's for. She starts a conspiracy theory that speculates that Hark's theory is the real conspiracy. It's a threat to decency, she says, to truth.
Their home faults, splits apart, the support beams change to sawdust. Draughts are a constant threat.
They're arguing more, peeves get into their skin like a profusion of ticks. There's holdout, lockdown. Each spends all their time wondering what counterpoint they'll be forced to lug their confidence against next.
When it comes out that history has been revised as erasure, they buckle off armor to find their skin as soft as green muck floating on a dormant pond.
If you stuck an easy finger in, you could part them completely.
No comments:
Post a Comment