In the background “Silent Night” plays on
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2010; all rights reserved
Effluence seeps more and more profoundly into the psyche of battered souls, red rimmed eyes unfocused, gazing through smoke from myriad tobacco and other smoke generating products, mystified at the residue that’s become their lives.
Four horsemen wonder what ever happened to the bugler. “If not know when” echoes from myriad steepled monstrosities far below, amidst exhortations for more funds: “give till it hurts” clean shaven, cleanly clothed earnest sheepherders shout.
And it hurts, and it hurts more, and it hurts worst, and they give, and they give to pastors, and to politicians, and to bankers, and to brokers, and to middle men, and to collection agents; all the folks they need to make the world go round.
Weariness and boredom are the only joys left to relieve the pain, but perhaps, in the greater scheme of things, they’re the fortunate ones;
No bombs drop all that frequently around them, no masked soldiers bristling with armor and armaments and stars and stripes break down their doors and force their families to the ground.
And perhaps most of them don’t dream of the corpses they’ve just molded from bodies not yet fully formed, dreams that battle with those of friends in twisted, blackened postures, who will never move again.
Champagne dribbles through dripping, reddened nostrils, down bloated lips, onto bloated quivering bellies; raucous laughter fills the air competing with clinking glasses and smoke from myriad tobacco and other smoke generating products.
Similar perhaps, but just not quite the same. Putrefying putrescence, … sure.
But that’s what putrescence’s for
And in the background “Silent Night” plays on.