rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Bummed

Most likely the Sun is just toying with us. It threatens to tighten its grip and pull us in, closer to its blazing retorts. It probably won't pull so hard that we are actually consumed, but it likes us to think it might. It likes to see us sweat. Enough, Sun! You are big. You are powerful. You could undoubtedly have your way with us. I will acknowledge that. But this sadistic streak... you really shouldn't be indulging yourself that way. It makes you look mean and petty. This is not behavior worthy of a truly great star.

Hey, Moon! Maybe you could interceded with your dad on our behalf. I know the extra heat is no problem for you, but don't you feel just a little bit of sympathy for your Mom? I mean you have to admit the relationship has grown pretty abusive. He keeps grabbing her and slapping her around, even setting her hair on fire. Not to mention what happens to all of us little parasites who live on her back. You are so calm and laid back, don't you think you could let him know how cool it is to be, well, just a bit cooler?

Yes, I know, this is mostly our fault. Ever since we decided to start keeping so many farty cows, and burn up forests to plant puny grasses that don't sequester anywhere near as much carbon, and then inventing all that stuff like cars and power plants and jets, and then making so many of such things. But the thing is that your Dad could counteract all that if he'd just back off a little bit, you know? So maybe you could put in a good word for us? Even if it's just for a few weeks? Because I'm getting seriously bummed out by this relentless heat here.




Sunday Verse



Lies


by Jo Shapcott


In reality, sheep are brave, enlightened
and sassy. They are walking clouds
and like clouds have forgotten
how to jump. As lambs they knew.
Lambs jump because in their innocence
they still find grass exciting.
Some turf is better for tiptoeing
say the lambs. Springy meadows
have curves which invite fits
of bouncing and heel-kicking
to turn flocks of lambs
into demented white spuds boiling in the pot.
Then there is the French style of being a lamb
which involves show and a special touch
at angling the bucking legs. Watch carefully
next time: lambs love to demonstrate -
you won't have to inveigle.
Eventually, of course, lambs grow trousers
and a blast of wool
which keeps them anchored to the sward.
Then grass is first and foremost
savoury, not palpable.
I prefer the grown sheep: even when damp
she is brave, enlightened and sassy,
her eye a kaleidoscope of hail and farewell,
her tail her most eloquent organ of gesture.
When she speaks, it is to tell me
that she is under a spell, polluted.
Her footwear has been stolen
and the earth rots her feet.
In reality she walks across the sky
upside down in special pumps.

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