HMS Beagle in the Straits of Magellan at Monte Sarmiento.
My unravelling was the result of a slowly acting poison: to no my bettors, to avoid the passive voice in the future, to unravel the knots on the Beagle. We have descended with the apes for a couple million years, but just realized it yesterday, my fellow amoebas twice removed, my protoplasmic cousins, my mitocondrial mothers. Have your ears tingled to the whisper of god? Then, my child, wash your ears with a depilating soap. The sooner the bettor, five cents on the dollar. Before the joker gets a hardon. Radon, xenon, and
The bongo girls had worked their position to the point that money in the bank was worth next to nothing. Cash was no escape from their cauldron. Cash is a bug. And when there’s a short circuit in your bug underpants, god help you Henry Kissinger, and all you ilk.
I have a spine. I’m warm blooded. I’m hairy. And mating may result in a live birth.
Please to forgive me, but I am also a primate. Prehensile tale, five left fingers, no end of words on the tip of my tongue, a couple opposable thumbs. A spanner in the works.
My people used to run naked in the African savanna, and soon spread to the warm California sun. In those days they used to appreciate a person with a little common sense.
But those days are long gone.
I want to build a steam whistle so I could whistle down the wind with a full head of steam, and not piss into it.