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Shaking his fist at the moon, he rises up out of the sludge, the shitty slime.

Oh sweet Copernicus, king of all these stones. Oh great sand reckoner, more like a wrecker of bones.

Standing tall he thrashes at the gates of oval-shaped Smaug-ism. Threatens to bring an inferno in the words he is singing. Gentle nightingale will sing and light the forest fire of the ages.

Worse than the goblin in star streamed keep, with dragons in the moat, is the machine we have all created. Wrought iron fraught with anxieties. Its baleful rusty teeth so tall they reach the firmament. So huge they don’t even notice the people they’ve eaten.

“That’s the crime.” He cries out into neon.

No answer just stoic silent indifference.

Copyright John de Gruyther 2017

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