farm

genius marks itself flagrantly. it smashes the florid standard, the crap of false angels. it descends, to the hip of the argonaut, proding at the fore, sticking candles into pigs. the pigs, they illuminate the dark farm, running happily about the mud, surrounded by shoddy fencing, to dine on slop, napping by the flickering fire, awaiting the golden sphere of day.

to cheer across the night, the pig rides to war. it waddles and snorts, charging to the battle. it hops and bounds, like the antelope, like the cheetah, gleefully through the breach of death. upon her back, the metal tube of bullets, shells and powder packaged to kill. perfectly obedient, the led it leaves on command. grey, it mushrooms and poisons. it leaves out the back, boring and tearing, making a wound that fills with shock.

the pigs attack those who sneakily proceed, flailing out of love. aghast, they cry. allowing themselves what they came, to cheer eachother. they challenge, and prostrate themselves before holy kin. they sport the shell of victory, and give their mouths to the cause.