Amnesia

Losing all politeness since pigs are really pigs and nothing else. After eating their young, they strut around with swelled nostrils snouted to the air, and feces, an afterthought confectionery, slime-ing down their chins. So we’ll say pigs and nothing else like half ape, half stallion is really a dog jumping to the crack of a whip; swimming in a pool of puncheon; staggering to hold onto his King James collar; remembering to play de whe: cat is 21, death really means marriage, and mama came crawlin last night in de form of maggots, sayin she home, and granddaddy keepin her company. SORRY WE DON’T ACCEPT CREDIT CARDS FOR LOTTO. CASH ONLY. THANKS.

It doesn’t matter who won, the cocks will continue to fight down dey in dem barracks and yards, where the earth is mixed with too much dust and blood, so it curds but never cultures. The cocks are fiercely scratching though, pecking beaks still gaping for more than the smell of foul pen feathers as they cockle. The cane fields burning jaundice in their eyes. It doesn’t matter who won the race, but who carries a hogshead on its shoulders. Running for miles, night long upon nights, days gone and stilled days, while God sits in a white tower with a shot-gun taking out everyone: dog jumping to the crackling whip, all the dirty cows invading the streets, whose dung is useless in the city. Even the once wretched sheep turned wolves, after making Monsoon’s lambs scream martyr. Even the well behaved Siamese cat gently purring, licking off her mother’s ancient fur. And the cocks and the pink pigs with their blue ribbons, squealing now–struck down–as Superman, too late, realizes how delicate he is to the kryptonite sun.

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