Tundra Last
Heavy sighing and sorrowful anguish rush like a stream in the veins of the bushy browed child, born from the hefty laps of the enigmatic John Mayor of Edwardsville. Run faster boy, it lurks on the edge of your Black Sabbath jacket, replacing the mustard you smeared by accident talking to the beautiful girl at the penguin sled party. You don’t look back, for if you do, it will stain your glass eyes with opaque plaque, the semen of the devil, the sauce the anti-christ under the world puts on his steak, his meat, his prey, his victim, his source for strife and proof of existence. The steps you take must be careful, everything rides on your stance and the ability to keep focus. Focus man! You’ve got to focus! This isn’t the grasslands or prairies your father raised you on when you broke your wooden leg against Dolly, the brown stallion, a heathen servant of the wild nefarious. Believe in yourself, because nobody else is going to, and when all before you seems lost, don’t stutter, don’t look back, I told you that already, keep moving, progress, envision, stare your life down a barrel hole of despair and wash yourself with sun water. It’s warm, feel and live it. Enshroud your body in the heavenly satisfaction known only to those on the verge of life and death. Close your eyes. Mute yourself and hold out your hands, like life has nothing left to offer. What is it you see? Paint it, write it, something, just something to alert us, please, hurry, time does not obey you, and it’s patience has already been cut. White becomes black. Sure it’s easily contrived, but it was coming, this land saw you coming, and you welcomed it. Remember that breathing? It’s cold. Oh, so cold. No. Not cold. Frozen. Frozen now. Not by ice, too little time, you know that. Frozen by death. So, adios mi hijo, the bears will be pleased tonight, because they’re introducing their hungry cubs to a new meal, the human with wooden legs. Those lucky cubs will get to taste wood, and it’s going to be hard to chew and hard to swallow. Rest for always, your treasured dove and princess, Gatsby Helmsley Hovercraft.
Credited to Nick Betts
Originally posted on Crappypasta.com
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