I have no idea. I really don't. It's absurdedly long; I dont' expect anyone to get through it sane.
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Weathermen


The sky is oily with desecration
and the sweat of Huguenots.
It is a refreshing change from
impotent clouds, blue horrors.
The sky is sultry, and therefore
not parallel to the smoldering
ground. No, it grinds itself
against unseen mathematical
equations, sighing "I've been
had, I've been had." France
takes no notice, France is busy
mourning the loss of history
to curators of footnotes, the
ones who fix weather reports
so the barometer always reads
"sunshine" and "slight breezes."
The Huguenots know better,
they know that no God resides
behind the moon, that the
moonlight is a product not of
divine origins but of science,
and they must smirk, must
keel over in splints of mirth
that are the true cause of
lightnings. (So you see, even
the weather can be explained
by history.) The rain is only the
champagne fizz-whizzing down
from the Huguenots' victory
party, and if we concentrate
and taste hard enough maybe
we could taste their wallflower
style and their conversations
and the banter of jazz prisoners.

The Huguenots know murder,
they know history, and they know
of themselves and the amount
of importance they carry in
determining the color of the
sky, the taste of the rain. They
are the forgotten gods, oily with
perspiration and desecration.
They are the ones we do not
worship, and they will be the
ones to execute the burlesque
sway of the sky's hips, to stop
the chancellor of France from
glancing up toward these calm
obscenities. Soon it will not be
the French who mourn the sky
but the Americans, with their
heartland twangs and hurried
slant of poetry, but the columns
of not-quite-parallel clouds will
never sulk at them the way they
always did for the Huguenots.

The Huguenots know victory.



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O_o [hides]