Offspring who’d escaped their mothers through matricide, which was the only way to escape them with the exception of killing themselves then each other stayed out, orphaned and unable to sleep just roaming the festive streets until late, occupying themselves by stringing up ornaments of testicles and skulls that they would glowingly impregnate with tapers rendered from the fat of abortions with lengths of hair for wicks and strands of hair and esophagi and intestine to hang glorious gore over the joyous proceedings, the sidewalks decked in pisspuddle, ornamented with the vomit and turd of perpetual holiday, the frayed and loosed ends of these umbilical strands tiedoff to garlands of desiccated dingleberries from the most diseased boughs and moldering branches of dying dingleberry trees topped with angelic roaches and other mutatudinously gigantic insects stripped of their wings and pointless stars, then wound around lampposts that’d wilted from the passion of their exertions, flaccid attempts on the sky, their jealousy of even the sun — decorations if they could be called such in appearance less like enormous rosaries than they seemed oversized adult products intended expressly for the stimulation of the anus. On allfours these offspring would promenade under these garlands proclaiming the worship of beauty, cheer and its happy cult, on spines of tar smashed open and meltingly gooey at base they’d often mistake potholes for wounds of potable sewer, slurping petroleum goop, they’d slip ’n’ fall to make easy prey for their relations and strangers alike, denizens of the streets and their lowering gutters strewn, too, with these tanned torsos these millions of them left amputated to gangrenous stumps ever grasping, heads still attached, nothing else: an eerie species of GrecoRomance, this dying admonition to pluck out your eyes if eyes they had anymore and not just slits, or holes, or rough ethers, at this sight of once full and whole people who’d had their limbs hacked from them or gnawed, their arms leaking at the shoulders, legs dripping at the kneel of their knees — they were sodomized in any available orifice with their own severed limbs, flinty sharpened hooves first then smacked about the face with the limply sopping appendage, sliced with metal, slit with glass, left to rock and rot, to occupy as entertaining spectacle their attackers whom they couldn’t even curse because despite the left heads, their mouths and tongues they weren’t able to even talk anymore, needless to say, that none of them were, that they were left languageless, rendered without speech, that they at the most generous only gestured and grunted at random, voiceless and languorously lolling like mute tongues themselves amid the humidity and heat and the damp stick of morning, the hour they’d traditionally air their sleek, ribworn flanks, deep into the long afternoons of dry scorch.
It was that the next evolution of those who were unmarked rendered them unto animals, partiformed creatures, mutagen beasts, who were once inarguably Men & Women mutated then mutilated by their fellow mutants and by the mutilation, too, that is the passage of unsanctified time, therianthropes to the Gods who had forsaken them as the Gods had once been forsaken themselves; how they were burdened beasts without conscience, asses without soul and that this — with the covenant sundered and the death of the chosen and their rainbow choked by the pollutant clouds and the stars of the sky burnt out and the sands of the sea winded up and away to dust the furthest reaches of the primeval void — this was, it’s been said, only the possible, a small allowance or potentiality, just one way of the many infinite ways in which the world might’ve evolved, essentially hidden, Apocryphal; in the end, which was only yesterday, little more than a misnomer misnamed.
