Her eyes were dead. Blackness is what she sees in the streams of her conscious bounty and apprehended that it was not just her eyes that are on its last legs but also her torsos that decay and all that here eyes can ogle at and zoom upon. Eating the flesh of her hollow being, blackness became a non-representational tinge of how her bounty should be treated.

She’s enraged. She spread her lifeless blooms and let it smolder the purlieu. Perspective unlooked are perspectives disappeared, she said. Glockenspiels reverberations are happy to the inhabitants and that angered her. Her tongue licked the limbs of the happy air and then pushed the glockenspiels away replacing the trunks of booming booms and shouting asses, cracking the land and shaking the mud. The mud spurted to the angle of a diabolic carcass lying on the other mud. She was shortly happy. Vengeance splashed her leaning on the honey-enlaced figment splashed on her bounty again. She was indeed happy.

Life presents nemesis–an entity that dwells in the flesh of existing organs, generates the power to take control of giving up; encroaching feelings of illness to the palpitating pulse of the unripe organs, and delivers the muscle to herald the whole of it. It is an uncanny present. It can put into contrast the cockroaches. The human eye is clouded with disgust in putting them into sight, leaving them crushed at times with little intestines glued on rubber slippers or panned to the trash. These pests, as we call them, comprise our ecological diversity. Their being is a piece of the puzzle that completes the refuge. Through hammering them, we smile. Relief. Euphoria. Jubilation. Through crushing them, we burst out in evil laughter. Their susbsistence kills our phobic beating yet still multiplies. The stinks we smell are the stinks we did make. Buzz out those safe alibis, cease pointing fingers for as one finger is pointed, four fingers are pointing back, cease pointing fingers on stinks and grime-coated stuff for without knowing, our own fingers are just as high and just as grubby as the things we are pointing at. And before point, humans, were great pretenders and the great recipient or those malevolent pretensions are Her. Kneel you knees and tilt your head up and say a simple three-word prayer and look down and cry to little cockroaches, say, I love that I hate you.

Life presents the baptism of a positive energy–cells that encompass tissues and conceal nitrocellulose in explosives causing the lacquered nails of Earth go rocky. It charges optimism to savour the gourmets offered by Him, flaps the breeze of deep waters and sips the deep waters for the shower of humanity. Dewdrops are sweet, said the inhabitants. Multicellular organisms could have it. We could have it but dragonflies are best epitomes of a virgin world for they gulped it even before they kissed their wings. Beautiful marks are them in noting how unpolluted our grasses and spheres are. Returning the short and long hand of the ticking display, round and wheel, she was happy then. Her lifeless blooms weren’t closed and as focused, an enigma’s always been formed. And the loss of breath has been far away. She was just so happy.

Her bounty remained pristine and was a victor against the havoc fluttering on the road surrounding her cardiac circles. The inhabitants spewed out tears wetting the shutting aperture projecting the defeated differences. Empathy. Compassion. Love for her. Wrong thing is them having it done before. It was just before. The fresh flesh is eaten already. She’s now dead. Or maybe not yet. Dying? Yes. She is and she shall is.

This is a dedication on the graffito of ugliness made by the inhabitants on Her eyes. She is happy. She is angry. Which is which? You decide. She is Mother Nature calling for ecological monarchs to stay; Roaches on drainages and Dragons all over the world.