Tuesday, June 18th, 2013

Sun King

Burn and blast, scream like hell as blood begins to boil. Scorched and bent, crisped and crusty, sandy, sweaty and dry. Smoke and soot and sodden, sullen, heavy air. Putrid puffs of lung on steel and fingernails scratching, biting, digging, bleeding for that one elusive wisp of life, of love, of coolness, nothing. All is glowering, wavering, teetering, with blind, acid heat. Heat that presses, bends, breaks and holds you down till, face buried in the ashes of your ancestors, you suck the pusty grey silt and cough and choke and squirm and struggle, and, at last, clotted with the foul flue, mouth gaping like some floundering fish, you lie still and wait for your eyes to glaze.