Detritus

the detritus kind..

i slither out of the mud, above the cooling water line. those beautiful rainbow refractions of oil and industrial peptides. oh, the autumn colors in the mirk stirr me so, yet i can't make a good expkanation why it is that this season, is preferable to all others. surly there are more caryon in the winter, surly there are more young hatchlings to cruntch in the spring. but it is the fall, that takes and stings my heart so. the excitment of the coming fog, that mulchy umami feel i get in my suction cups.

but by night, the euphoria of the atrocities subsides and i get chilly.

it is then that i remember the strange Nina simone westren song, called "the chilli wings";

Goin' where

the willows weep no more, darlin' baby,

Going where

the willows weep no more,

Chilli wings

don't blow along my shore,

oh baby,

Where the chilli wings,

the chilli wings

don't blow....

i'm sentimental fool in the autumn, and who isn't....

but you can not live a life of only sanguine delights , nor can you afford to ruminate too long along the cooling froth. the toxic wastes are no place that you'd want to catch the sniffles..

by the crooked willow tree, i wallow, and ooze, in laziness. that motorist, which i happened upon weighs heavy in my bowels..

the chilli wings..

the chilli wings..

oh..

i begin to construct the blanket of detritus. letting thevtwigs and leaves stick richly against my secretions. it is an artform, really. to cover well.

a mere roll upon the leaves, and they will stick to tightly packed.

no. a rippling of the folds, snd a gathering and spreading of the fallen material. that's the way.

the chilli wings i hum, and cover, ooze more of the goop if need be. i esconce myself for the night, digesting in peace.

all is peace, and warmth , and chirping.

chilli wings...

chilli wings...

chilli wings..

chilllllllllllllliiiiii winggggs......