Hippo friendships, based solely on which chips and dips have fallen off the passing ships that day. They play and play until fried potatoes falling from ketchup-colored skies cause them to fetch their nets and forget about their games. Once inflamed with crispy salty lust, it’s just a matter of time before these underwater blimps begin to glimpse the understanding that there simply never can be enough to stuff all their gullets full. So they fight and bicker like angry, liquored-up pick-up trucks stuck in the bogs. Oh, no, don’t get me started on the hot dogs once dropped from the top of that first mate’s crow’s nest. Oh, the hate and the mess, those bloaters growing greedy, blowing their tops for beer nuts, marble fudge and gumdrops, as that vittle litter splinters and splits the hippo clique into a bitter bunch of lunch-drunk, punched-out lunks and louts, pouting over past missed mouthfuls and every lull in the shipping lanes, grease-stained and sugar-stoned, pounding through the dripping jungle rains alone, so alone.
Wet ink. Write fast so as not to drag your lingering fingers through, but no so fast that most of it isn’t dry by the time the sated page begs to be turned, turning and turn the opposite blank into a primitive pointillist pieces with only forced meaning, mar the peaceful flecks with your words, more and more, wet, newborn, unsure, form the thoughts quickly and write fast, faster, before you discover how worthless those words may be and can still choose to wipe them away, if you should so please.
Every lament is a love song…