Geek

Playtime in the bone-pit. Sanctified ritual amalgamates sawdust savagery with infantile hunger and births a blank recognition within the eyes of the disbelieving. What is it? Praise be to the Geek. Empty, gone and automated he devours his daily bread of chickens and rodents with a dry heroin mouth that grinds and chews towards infinite sideshow pay days. Strange but true! Mister, he was made for it. Humiliation sets in the veins like road tar, inducing another bite of feathered neck and flapping wing as his eyes fix on a deceased, interior landscape that was once him. All Alive! The saint reflected. Beyond self, he is indestructible. Through tooth and stomach, he has relinquished the facades of love and hate and in his mouth they see themselves. And they’ll always pay to watch him eat.