Lactating bears

On the road to perdition hopping over mossy river drains, sensing an over exposed feeling of rising joy, I appointed the hovering gloved bears milking their melted peers as members of the board. While pulling on a tit with a tribal tat, the most resilient wrote a psalm that read “to hell with humankind” on the palms of the last introvert he fed.

The assembly was grilled to perfection, rare on the inside, soaking up the sound of a xylophone exhaling an old-fashioned anthem played by the severed hand of a reoffending thief. Attending a Newton’s laws recital in a burning yurt was all I had left to enjoy at that point. And when we’ll be voting for the next three dimensional groove to enslave our hearts, I’ll be ready to postpone my lunch, shave a mammal and embrace the bleakness of it all.

I’ll watch them pour milk into their saddened auras and laugh, laugh until my aureole encircles the whole world again like some precious ore. Tell them I was there when the educated bears were lactating before being truncated and thrown into a milky mass grave. Gravity drove the deliberation to end in a mug, debate is now out of question, keep as quiet as a silenced hug, the assembly is now in solitary session.