PART SEVEN: REFLECTION PIGS
Sydo spits./ Rinses off the/ edge of self-/discovery,/ fine tuning/ the right/
question for/ sorrow to/ grumble from/ the belly/ like a/ whining dog./
Sometimes/ simple/ similes/ are taken/ by sourcing/ another’s/
suffering,/ and sometimes/ alliter/ation/ nauseates/ this pool of/
motivat/ional/ hedonism./ It is/ not quite the/ time, not yet,/
to present/ the Philos/ophy of/ Swine. No, the/ clocks are wrong/ to serve/
anything/ other/ than the depths/ brimmed with/ tomorrow’s/ global/
hangover/ forcing some/ to notice/ an impen/etrable/ place. Some/
decide to/ dive straight through,/ circumlo/cate some lives/ worth crying/ over./
Some lives, by/ choice, are worth/ getting hawked/ over by/ Sydo’s sap./ Don’t be/
too alarmed./ The gods/ willed it so./ Relax,/ calm down,/ chill out, man./
When asked “Where/ you from?”/ Sydo plans/ his words he/ soon forgets/ his source/
materi/al. Sometimes/ the words to/ sing it don’t/ come easy,/ easier/
to discharge/ tributes to/ agape mouths/ below none/ too eager/ to know, nor/
care. Yet those/ birdies re/main hungry/ for statements,/ gargling:/ “Yes, Sydo,/
the Bitch of/ Sadism,/ where You from?/ Don’t tell us/ You are but/ merely a/
concept to/ flash fry all/ our minor/ cuts upon?/ How many/ liters of/
saliva/ could fill this/ pool enough/ to deal with/ drought? It is/ good to be/
somewhat/ critical/ of all our/ pleasures/ that match You/ with our/
habitats./ Such thirst did/ not come from/ nowhere, and/ if You are/ to blame, the/
amount of/ water we/ need each day/ varies on/ our species./ Being that/
us larger/ birdies have/ greater calls,/ and being/ that your phlegm/ is far from/
suitable/ for us to/ peak, it is/ not a de/termination/ with which You/ directly/ merged. No,/
Sydo, it/ is the matte/ backdrop of/ nature that/ wriggles your/ relationship/
free on a/ hook, while we/ condition/ally chirp:/ “Where you fuck/ing from?/
And, what’s your/ destination/ stranger?”/ Dangerous/ cities,/ take study./