Sunday, September 16, 2012

red threads of the animal soul

had a dog once that collected stamps he had a network of pals all over sent him Magyar Postars and Third Reich rarities used to sit looking at them over breakfast never seemed that happy or enthused just did it like a routine historic ones he liked the best would lick the backs to see what the past tasted like getting in that vestigial DNA from the last lickers from Germany Romania Czechoslovakia the Soviets saliva fossils full of dead crystal messages one day he starts writing hundreds of letters envelopes them all up applies the stamps when I ask I am waiting he says to speak with the dead people from afar who I have tasted it won't be long now they will come I think this is foolish I say so and we argue over breakfast he looks at me angrily but one day we hear the marching of many boots, the singing of wild songs outside then a stop then the door bangs hard no I say no, don't answer he is marching halfway to the door when I shoot him down like a dog with the old shotgun we used on the rats he barely whimpered just soaked in you know how they do there was no more stamping anywhere after he marched away that last time last thing I heard was the letterbox slam and a curious eldritch sound of licking from the outer green yard I slept like a log .

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