Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

35. our neptune king

we harvest humans in june,

when the weather isn't quite fair

and our bodies aren't quite happy.

but it's the ripest month of the year

and the humans are most joyful then,

glowing under palpable sunlight

beaming through gossamer-knitted leaves

chattering amongst thick artificial oak canopies.

their hair grow long and luscious,

and their skin darken, the stark blue of their veins dim

under a layer of healthy red and brown melanin.

late spring, bunches of them

surface from underground barns.

the young ones first, tottering on their tiny feet and hands,

then come the older ones, cautious and alert.

but soon enough, they are sprawling and running

on top of flat grass carpets whose creases and wrinkles

we carefully smoothed out and tucked away

under ugly hills and shadowy moors.

their tiny stick-figures wading in warm ocean tidal waves

we blow against the coastal line,

from red muddy shores to receding rocky levies,

from bumpy pebble-paved paths to white sandy beaches.

tiresome work, corralling and cutting them down,

but sometimes, we'd simply sit and watch

these innocent creatures, smiling and laughing and giggling,

blinking against the humid brightness and warmth

their eyes blow wide and fascinated,

tipping up to the circular rings of orange induction lamps

blazing down from the ceiling,

arms reaching out

like they might be able to grasp the light

rolling across their bare collarbones

and naked navels.

their short little lives and tiny brains

forever magnetize by the intangible heat

spreading across the back of their hands

and glazing over their flesh;

warming the tenderize water pools they're submerged in

and drying out the fattening feed we pour over their troughs.

even when we herd them onto creaky lorries

or open-topped containers,

bringing them from the farm

to restaurants in bundles of four;

even when they are stripped of all free-range roaming spaces

and instead contained in glass tanks, crawling

on capped knees and elbows

'round and 'round in an endless figure-eight pattern,

they're still looking upward, mouths open in wonder,

searching for something perhaps only they can see

between the flickering frequency of electricity

passing through a copper wire.