A Nightmare.
How the lilies sulk under the moon’s prominent shine as they are uprooted and laid aside! How the ruby red gerberas bark and berate me as they helplessly guard the rosebush and how the soil calls its bloody moisture. I come across an ear as I dig my land. The soil continues to goad me further. It is a petulant cunt. The carnations continue to cry, but I can’t see or hear them. No! Their colours aren’t bright enough for me! They aren’t so beautiful to sway me. I will dig on.
There is a collection of heads held within the potted plants which are placed on the veranda in wall like fashion, side by side. They are filled with both soil and seed. The seed grows in aggressive fashion from the nostrils, ears and eyes of my monster. They sprout and try to be beautiful again. They are not. Their colour is incomplete, impotent, their soul sunk.
The lilies wail as they flash the cream of her eyes in mine. Those tulips long to touch upon the golden crown that was her hair but they are damned. They scupper to the lightest of touches. They are but ill mucus to your palm. Her red and velvet lips would be those broken roses, every petal chapped and raw. I feel their agony as galloping air passes, gnawing at their anorexic bodies, whinnying through an immortal night.
I hear the soil laughing at me so I laugh back. It laughs because it thinks it has me. It thinks that because I am neck-deep within it that it has me. I laugh because it is wrong. I laugh because it drowns out those bleeding buds as I arise from the ground. Ascending, I pat the soil like a puppy. It flattens to my spade. It belongs to me. Good boy.
