Indeed it was “transformed utterly, utterly transformed,” terrible no beauty: rocks, trees, amber waves of Mother under carbon. I knew her as skin. I remember Mother’s skin.
Like I recall that car I’d sweated many hours to possess. Like I recall my wife; my lover’s knees; the postman’s odd resemblance to my sultry teenage girls.
I remember: heavy-metal like ice on a stove…and all the everythings before light and color hemorrhaged from what was, that is, so much… was all just skin…
Same old, same old: idiots with matches playing god, igniting sudden empty, silent breathless, burnt black Dawn. Grisly. The Sun also rises, still, yet, again. A coin in a pall.
Hands wove this woof of ash. Hands of men, who no longer resemble what eyes once knew. As men. Transformed utterly to turds of coal.
The world is a marshmallow ravished by fire — greasy bloated burned.
White hot? Spit on the ashes. Douse your stumps. Be as the counterfeits, dry with after-earth, born of Mother’s iron womb.