The Strange New Life of the Dark Dark Meat
I always loved the dark meat.
I am almost sure it is the dark meat that I haven't eaten that will come to
life.
Unbroiled and raw the dark dark meat is waiting to be alive again.
There is no question of a soul when you are talking about the uneaten dark meat
coming to life.
The soul needs to be held in by skin, and this raw dark meat has no skin.
Even the fat has been stripped away. I will break the vertabrae one crack at
a time. I will worry my fingers with the darkest of meat until my
breaking fingers are freed of their unnatural inner light, and my little
soul will be bonded and alive in the darkest place of the dark dark
meat. Don't be mad at him, he is clever and wise and he would never
loose his soul in the skinless dark meat because he will have eaten it
long ago. The dark meat has become him and then died a million little
deaths, long before my soul leaked out like a strange gas that did not
know of the natural laws. This little soul, that is not missed, is in all the meat, the darkest meat, that is wandering the earth looking for itself. Out on the frozen plain the monsterous dark meat cries for love
and the worried hands fall off to the side in an expression of despair.
"It can not continue" moans the litlle soul of the dark meat "It must
end" something that was never broken before has been turned upside down
and vigorously shaken.The lamb is bleeding on the cross and the dark
meat is laughing. The joke is not in any languge that can be spoken. It
is a deadly joke that can not be heard except by the dark meat and even
then only before the unnatural gasp of the little soul cannot have come
across. Only then will the peals of laughter ring like broken bells
across the face of the skinless dark dark meat. The rancid butter and
the darkness of the meat that is come to life have been planning for the
new soul of light. The broken thing is not afraid of the dark dark meat.
The broken thing has become the dark dark meat. In a magic fairy tale
all the little dark meat has had a broken dream made of dust and the
blood of childhood diseases, but the story didn't rhyme and the gates
were never open. So the sad dark meat waiited in a field of sharp thorns
for the story to come to an end, but it never did. The snow began to
fall and still the lonely sad dark dark meat had to wait for the gate
that would never open. High above in a plastic dolls head, heaven was
being created by the gas of the little soul. This heaven was not for
meat it was for the broken dreams of lovers. When the broken dreams went
to this plastic doll heaven they were shaken like clocks on the end of a
long long string. The hands of these little dream clocks would softly
knead the flesh of the dream until the dark meat was torn by thorns.
The gears of these little dream clocks would be covered with rancid butter
and strips of fat from the darkest meat. These little dream clocks would
swing and shake at the end of long strings and finally the sad litlle
dream clocks would break against the eyes of the plastic doll. The
shattered eye of the plastic doll would dream a new heaven of hair and
blood and the broken dream clocks would become the tiny tears in the
dark dark meat. One step at a time the palace of meat is climbing
itself. One step at a time the darkest meat in the palace of blood and
hair rises within itself to become the dream of an unbroken clock that
will never be wound. The bell of the unbroken clock is made from the
teeth of old horses. The breath of the ancient horses has been used to
warm the shatered eye of the plastic doll of heaven. The broken clock is
pounding in the chest of the dark meat that is waiting in the snow. It
is cying and wants to nurse on hair and blood, but the gate wil never
crack. I will not cut the darkest meat for I would only then loose my
soul. The plastic doll is trapped in heaven with the bad bad man. The
bad bad man is made of springs and has always eaten the darker meat. His
eyes are made of glue and his face is stuck to the wall of the palace of
meat. In his chest there is no clock but only a long string made of
hair, blood, and scales of fish that were hooked but never eaten. The
bad bad man will never be happy until he has eaten the plastic dolls
shattered eyes. He wants to own the dream of the loney torn meat and
make a heaven from the pain. The broken clock and the bad bad man have
been paid by the gate to make new eyes for the dark dark meat. The gate
cannot be seen with eyes of glue. The eyes of glue are made of clocks on
long strings that hang from the palace of meat. The clock breaking
hammer is made from thorns and the thorns are made of blood and hair
that has been died bright orange. The frog in the bottom of the cup is
licking the blood from the longest string. The cup is a heaven that the
frog cannot see because his eyes are made of thorns. The hammer is
looking for the dark dark meat in the palace of broken light, but the
maiden will not dance for the thief. The hammer will have to break the
clock. The clock is filled with dreams and the dreams are made of heaven
on long strings. The dark dark meat dreams of the plastic doll, but the
hammer will break the dream. First it breaks the clock and then the wild
hammer swings down and breaks the dream of the dark dark meat. I have
paid for strings and I have paid for the cup but I have not paid for the
hair and blood that are trapped in the wall of the palace of heaven. The
angels are impatiently waiting for the lost dark meat. They are smoking
cigarettes and coughing while they wait. One angel carelessly ignites
the wings of another when she is lighting the next cigarette and the
angels wings are all on fire. They are flying through a field of broken
clocks with their wings on fire when the strings start spewing gasoline.
The gasoline is filled with sugar and the angels are dreaming of honey
that is smeared over the dark dark meat. The firery angel wings are
dreams of the heaven of dark meat and the dark meat is slowly being
covered with the ashes from the burning angel wings. The desperate
angels are kissing the broken clocks and they have cut their tounges on
the broken glass. The severed tounges of the flaming angels are speaking
of the dreams of meat, but in the other heaven the frog cannot hear the
words. The maiden lifts her dress and the thief plays the hornpipe and
the sad dark meat is still waiting by the gate for the angels to give
him a cigarette. The dark dark meat is smoking a cigarette made of blood
and broken clocks and the angels are eating dirt with their hands. The
angel hands were broken by the hammer when it tried to smash the cup,
but the frog could not taste the melted wax and fat made by the dark
dark meat. The bad bad man has sawn away the carcas of the ancient horse
looking for the darkest meat. His hairy hands are covered with blood,
but the blood is not only red, it is also yellow and black. His lungs
are full of ash from the burning wings of angels and he chokes on the
multicolored blood that runs down his chest. Some of the clocks are now
on fire and his hands are also burning. His hair is falling on the plate
and mixing with the ancient multicolored horse blood. It magically
twists on its own and is turning into strings to hold the some of the
broken clocks from burning. The sad dark meat is going home to the
slicing machine. Across the field of burning broken clocks he is
wandering to the room of bottle caps that are named after childhood
diseases. The severed tounges of angels are speaking dreams of heaven
and more frogs are falling from the sky along the ropes of hair and
ancient horse blood. The time is broken by the flaming clocks and the
shattered plastic doll eyes are filled with dirt. Blood is running down
the walls of the palace of meat as the bad bad man looks across the
whirlpool of blood. The broken clocks are singing the songs of angels.
Black leather satchels are filled with fragrant herbs and lime jello.