FEAR of MOATS

The Unmoved Mover

The Unmoved Mover, the Arbitrator, the First Principle, the Mitigate, the Collector of non-corporeal scat, the dissector of all things rational, everything deemed reasonable and beyond reproach, this imbecilic grasping at straws (men). Damnably meretricious out there today, almost enough to send one careening over the edge. I, for one (not I oedipal or ether-wise) surly don’t know, nary an intentional stance or a relational integer, enough wind and windiness to upend the turnip cart. I, for none, am none to impressed with this pre-solstice (ness). Surely there is a better way to transition into winter than this sleety rain slapping the whiteness from the offal of one’s face, how profanely ungodly in deed. One would think, would one not, that rats flying and mice scurrying and teeth chattering would be a good indication, a portend, a harbinger, of worse things to come. I, for particular, see no end to these execrations and bad manners. Tailless, primate and odious as we (straw) men are, nothing changes just the same. Time for the Moved Mover to upturn the turnip cart and get on with it.

Fyodor’s Cave

Fyodor lived in a cave of words
some living most dead

unspeakable at best
among the rotting debris of echolalia

words
and guano