May 27, 2011
The puppet in a bird mask sits down at the make-shift table. His limbs crack and his red head gleans against the psychedelic wallpaper, the blueprint for someone else's bad dream. But he does not know it--he has no idea that it is Sunday brunch from Hell, sent down to the stage he shares with Bearhead the figurine. A rubber feast of cake and steak and lettuce for the non-initiates, founded objects with no tomorrow, not even today.
The clockfire burns down their throats while they stuff themselves, push it down their hollow bodies. They thought they would eat and be merry. They both have their hands in their mouths and they cannot stop. They do not know that they are toys, or why tears are streaming down their faces from the agony of their bodies splitting open. Shattered, cold, abandoned. The last pieces of them lay like trash on the stage. Nobody wants them, not anymore.
Inspired by 'Brunch Haiku' and 'Still Life With Woodpecker' by Emily Ayres.
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