Reptiles and Rogues

http://99percentspace.files.wordpress.com

There is an ongoing cloud of delusion that has been engulfing the earth. It is the same in the small towns as it is in the big cities. There is thin layer, a jaundiced skin wrapped over our everyday lives that clouds the way things truly are. Whatever gives us that teat-sucking comfort as we walk through a world that is immense with privileged and entitled jackals who eat the world, bit by bit. And those are just the consumers, buying and buying and building their wall against the outside world.

The true life suckers, the slithering reptiles that beat the dead horses with their studded tails in the street, feeding bits of the horse to the scurrying even weevil lackeys as it struggled on trembling legs to rise.  The weevils come hither and yon to hear the scaled scoundrels blather, cajole and vomit their self-proclaimed truth and throw their daggers of spiteful judgment and at those who rail against them.

The rogues, the ne’er do wells, try to help, expose the reptiles by cutting through the skin, the slimy veneer the reptiles hide behind. Some rail against them, the rogues they are, walking up to the slithering beasties and tug, tug on their forked tongues and cram crow in the gape of the reptile’s gullet. The crows fly to freedom and peck the rogues at the knees, flying away with the knee caps. They speak, they yell, they hack and receive feces in their ears and gaping mouths.

Most want nothing to do with the circus of reptiles devouring each other and some run repeatedly into the walls looking for a way out. They topple, they cram the dirt of the earth into their ears and scoop out the their seeing balls from their brain holder with corn pone spoons to be blind and deaf to a truth that is hard to swallow and lies that go down like acid. They sit and face the back walls of their cages, inches from an exit and speak to the shadow that was their world and cry blood when no one converses back.

The rogues are outside, banging on the walls, struggling to come in, running from the reptiles that have no interest, but occasionally lash out in hunger and spite. They multiply as they are hacked by the rogue’s words and jibes, crawling over each other and away, to infest those who are shut in, struggling to speak to the walls. The rogues finally batter down the walls, only to find an empty room. They yell until their vocal chords explode and write until the tips of their fingers go from clack to tick on the keyboards, buttons stained red.