Grief

I remember the grief in Samuel when Saul failed, like the grief in Nile when blood crept into it — just like it creeps into the bones of this earth. The rage in grief is distant but distinct, escorted by bits of frozen nuts and wizened grains of desert sand, white assembly of killing spectres in a background of black eclipse with lunar talons and swords of claws and jars of cold tears. Oh, how Samuel grieved for Saul! The mourning is immense . . . Sempervirence fossilised along abbeys forayed with hot silt and Dane guns of lewd hunters Pulsations and acrid fever, with the disease of camels, are frequented by a recrudescence of the mastodon, In liaison with his extended kinsmen the dinosaurs. We are livid with mourning, for the soul of a toothless one gone from us this grey day of elegy and season of potent grief. Fetters exist, and persist, swinging in our faces like treasures of hell where we hear that bug-ridden mats are spread for us; there, chants of elegy hoot, and black furnaces boil and smelt the repast we are to devour.