The Jester on the Corkscrew

The diagram. In equal proportions. Of how to if. The protons tangling their quarks. In a flurry of indecision. The numbers come in arrant sparks. The sky dissolves into her waning vision. A loose algebra of empty skin.

It's meat. Juices. And water. The same as we all are. She fills her ladle and waits for someone to present a bowl. The meal is only a single dimension. In a series of tests. The knives in her stare don't kill them. They just make them easier to catch.

The voice over explains that she's discovered a constant. In amongst all the vagaries of the hunt. A grave she can solicit. For the eulogies she covets.

The sand too soft to draw in. This swing too easy to abuse. As she banters with the contingent. In her search for more.

Just oblong particles vaguely accelerating. In a catastrophe of things to do. The treasure map in her underwear. The poison in her stockings.

She waits for the world to happen. But there is only that same machine.

Blind painters and deaf musicians. Asking the moment to forgive them.