by B.T. Schweitzer
Covered in the rags of waxy coated scraps of foil left in a garbage heap they toil in the forest by the interstate crossing. Unseen save by the light of fireflies, and flashes of headlights through the trees in the ichor of the night they dance. In the rhythm of the rain to the tune of the spheres overhead and those between his legs they are a shapeless ballet of mushrooms and moonbeams. Neither animal, nor plant, nor man, they are too fine for that and made of the same rib cage as Eve. Gently cracking the bones of every tree and peeling open the petals of each flower through the sickly sweet adoration of halitosis kisses. Even painting the dew droplets on the leaves of grass with brushes made from the hair of blind moths more white than milk and louder than David Bowie playing electrical guitar on Mars. While their cousins dab sand in the eyes of little boys and little girls this goblin ilk takes the shape of one hundred beetles innumerable and exact to consume the fallen stag and return it to their home—the Damp. Decadence in dirt, this palace of bones and rot lies beneath the surface of every puddle in a microcosm that sterile men in white coats have observed but never seen. Behind the turn of every leaf as the final chords of summer’s ballad die in the air their numbers rise upon the lunar horizon. Like any colony of hymenoptera scurrying efficiently in the subterranean wasteland of boogeymen and toddlers these children feast hungrily upon the remains of their parents emptying fleshy husks to cover their white skin and red eyes until they return to the land of the living at a quarter past eight for the morning commute.