It was all the  fevered dream of a

It was all the  fevered dream of a wine drunk soldier, sunk in a nightmare, him late of the fallen walls of the city in flame.  The walls of troy, the fallen soldiers.

So easily daunted. The shift from Jason to Troy, just from reading some book that reenacted the Argonauts tale in the most lyrical prose. Rife with fragments from other times and recipes. 

The hackneyed stumbling stories of mine (yes, hackneyed is underscored with tragic pun usage), the tales of nothing to everyone, yet everything in my small world – these become delicate lacy lettered reminders of inadequacy. But that matters not at all. I am in a vacuum, placing words in the boundless static of space, restive despite the darkening cloud of doubt.



Zebra/Mannequins, where finches and trojans meet. The mannikin is a bossy bird, ruling the aviary. The zebra finch is prolific and loud, it’s progeny springing forth “like rats” (to quote the local eastern european bird salesman, but more on that presently)..

Obviously, the trojans discovered these horses, or rather this horse, and believing these/this a gift from the gods, they ripped the bastard horse belly only to discover the fierce soldiers lurking inside. The men of argos and allied troops sprung force to slice and dice torsos, and cleave heads a sunder. 

Gift horses? Forget it. 

Zebras are the next fatty pork belly, and pork belly is the next black. 

Mannequins serve the surface, and the surface conquers great nations. Great nations come and go.

Finches it is.