The Fox's Testimony

I was offended by the egg.
The purple-eyed featherless one inside,
suspended in goo, wouldn't even open her eyes,
and therefore believed
that her shell marked the dangerous end of everything.

She was right.
I ate her whole damn world,
and the yellow gunk on the tip of my nose condemns me.
Fly, little preposterous naked peanut;
fly straight into my stomach-nest.

It may be true that I am not the best mother for birds,
but my kits copy my every move.
They stick close, and are already skilled pilferers;
could I be more proud?
Besides, the hen is more pragmatic than sentimental.

You may get your moment yet, though--
you who judge me.
The sky, lonely for the birds that never rose,
may open and suck me and my family up into the sun,
little orange snacks to feed the fireball.

This is why the egg offends me--
I know what it has in mind.
_______

for Artistic Impressions With Margaret--Toril Fisher. Image at top is Toril's, entitled "Wanna Play?"

 
 

Goldilox's Goat

If you're set on killing your kid,
I'm not feeling it, but it's your business.
It might even be a mercy--
he won't have to see your Pinball Eyes across the dinner table anymore;
no more double jackpot bonus for obedience.

Still,
five bucks says you didn't consult your wife about this.
Bloodshed, 
zealotry,
long flowing beards,
these are the kind of things you get
when women aren't part of the decision making.
Honey, if you have to choose between 
dealing with God
or dealing with maternal fury,
God can collect His own coconuts, that's what I think.

And so now, my text, brother.
Don't fuck with my Goat.
Do you think I believe that shit story about the brambles?
Do you think that I think that he just rocketed on in there
like a meteor into somebody's living room?
Do you really believe in sacrifice by proxy?
Do you really think I won't hurt you if you touch my Goat?

Capricorns are a tricky business.
They mope, they brood, they suspect your motives,
and since your motives blow chunks,  there you have it.
Isn't it handy
how your God ran a quickie shell game 
and swapped kid for Goat, so to speak?
Kill the kid,
no don't, just kidding,
ha ha.
And all the while, you, with your knife raised
as if you were playing whack-a-mole with it.

I once visited the Three Bears. 
I crashed there, they fed me this oatmealy crap.
All I ever heard was, don't mess with the furniture,
this is mine,
that's his,
hands off,
blah-de-la.
It was pretty dysfunctional, but there were no Divine commands,
no infanticide,
no Pinball Eyes turned toward the heavens.

Here's how it's going to be:
I'm gonna take my Goat.
You're gonna chill the fuck out.
I'm gonna cougar your kid at the reading tonight
and make him shout hallelujah.
Problems?
Call 1-800-CAP-GOAT.
Thank you for holding.
Someone will be with you as soon as you pull your head out and put the knife down.
Later, Abe.
Go home to your wife.
Meditate on a new rubric.
Insert quarters, play again.
_______

for Out Of Standard with Izy 

                       

Pipes

I've the desire to be a siren,
and so siren shall I be.

I'll wash my throat with strong lye soap--
my tongue with strychnine tea--
then when I sing, my cunning will bring
the doomed from out the sea.

I've the desire to be wicked,
and so wicked shall I be,

that the Lorelei will seek me out
to ask and bow and find out how
I sing so
sing-u-lar-ly.
________

for Fireblossom Friday.