What lay on the cutting room floor? What caught the eye what was thrown to the dogs what seemed fraught with despair or not part of the throng, not standing above not keening and cold, not thrilling and proud?
The rough and shorn and bereft of levered tongue.
How might we forget, for just this moment, an alto trifle, the mendacious warble, the lisp that curls before the gaps of the vocal cord, then ending it all with a tired glottal stop.
All in all, there is a plan, but no intent. There is no meaning, except when applied with meticulous tedium. This is no place for symmetry or dewy visions of wonder. We demand the restless, those camel-backed yet liquidless bearers of unknown. Slay them upon arrival, since with our supposed knowledge they bear bad news, we are unwilling to witness what their blackened throats utter.
These things we give to you: these seven heavens for one dying, these seven sorrows for one tear, seven heavens for just one dying. These many prayers for all those who lie in wait with bones sucked dry and cracklin’ white, porous by bathes of bleach and lye.
So. A round on the house! Here’s to milking the turn turn turn for every season there is an herb, to a piquant medicinal trifle to sustain one till advanced years with a fire filled belly, to hot blood and no more cold hands.