She
had one tale to tell.
She
once had worn pastel
to Hell
(she took the bargain
weekend
Dante tour, her guide
a
half-moronic Druid) and had
dire
reason now to rue it: she
discovered
Hell transmogrifies
pastel
into varieties of ghastly
body
fluid hues, which seep down
through
whatever fabric of a shirt
or
skirt or pantaloons and socks
you
had put on, eternally to stain it
and
your skin, effectively tattoo you
in and
out of time with it: that is to say,
forever
and a day. She was
the
kind of nervous little thing
that
almost thinks, is only
ever
almost there, as wary
as
a parakeet with eczema,
wrapped
tight inside her folded wings,
red
eyes that hide behind their blinks –
and
in some locked vault part of her
intent
on, bent on pleading to whatever
bureaucratic
corporation managed hell’s
defeats
and its procedures, not to mention
tainted
her pastels and painted her
with
their afflictions so she’d ever-after
play
the role of laboratory accident –
“o please, whoe’er ye be,
relent for just a beat
and just once let me dare,
I only want to dare.”
.
No comments:
Post a Comment