[Noise-vixens palsy]
Noise-vixens palsy in the ceiling of my shack. I visit the holograph of your drifting
grandfather, his coterie of sewn-up temple virgins. There’s always a pretty
face nailing the fissure sepulchre, stapling my filthy leather to the senate
house doors. I am not held in esteem. I go wrong, triangle myself deep in
lightning & perforation. Most people call me a weirdo operative, but I
prefer to think of myself as a woe supervisor, an evaluator of pitfall
& organ-grinder adventure. Your homestead may have fooled the census
bureau, but this isn’t my first game of horseshoes. I’m known for a tedium
that borders on legendary, a face bitten by wound & rampage. I can hear
the people talking in your priest hole. I can taste the oak in their throats,
passed down through generations spent on the run. Your ancestors made
me show my scars to prove my worth, how many times I’ve been burdened
by knives for this bit of country, this scrap of idea & spittle. I’ve got my flesh
collections to keep me company, my fish-eyed witnesses to the spectacle of my putrid
museum. I am your curator, your dream taxidermist. Stand & be counted.
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