Isn’t it a wonder that, not so long ago, the atoms which now
constitute your brother were spread about across our globe, possibly even our
universe. When you look at him, you are looking at material that has travelled
further than you could possibly imagine. Eternally recycled.
A star,
Joan of Arc,
A real peach,
Your brother.
Joan of Arc,
A real peach,
Your brother.
He is leasing his body from the cosmos.
Annie down the road is dying. Whether they burn or bury her,
chances are she’ll end up as food. Maybe your son or your son’s sons will eat
her. You can eat anyone provided you leave it long enough.
Look at him, sitting there, entirely unaware of his place in
a lineage running back to the beginning of time. Probably beyond that, I’m a
little unsure of the history of time.
Transubstantiation seems a silly concept, but it is entirely
conceivable that some part of Jesus Christ served time as a wafer.
Our little boy will, for a while, consider himself the most
important thing in the world. In this way, every atom gets a little chance to
be king.
‘I said: Mummy, can I have something to eat?’
*
I am a star gazer. I gaze at the stars and at the mysteries
inside you. So many people, so many wonderful things have travelled through
this tract, and I do not mean to be coarse.
Pig,
Peach,
Person –
Peach,
Person –
It all comes out the same way. Why not steal a bite with a
kiss?
I’ve seen all sorts. I know what you eat, but in a very real
sense I couldn’t possibly guess.
It’s around this time of year I like to celebrate the birth
of our lord Jesus, who sacrificed himself in order to become a grape and
perform a miracle upon himself.
Freud would have had a field day with my chosen profession,
but what would he say now?
‘Ribbit.’
It’s difficult to remain moral when you see everything for
what it is – Everything. A murder is just a stage in the ceaseless redistribution
of matter. My brother is now a crunchy bunch of carrots.
