Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Prison Stories

The prisoner's sad entertainment could be heartening,
but as warden, he looked out into the murky hollow seas
where only sombre tankers moved in the preprogrammed lappings,
to find a calm and page-like order to mimic, the flat, disaffected
way, he reconfigured the bodies of the men, as their own behavior
befitted, according to the policies laid down in some century's
past. The warden's head was odd, tall and thin, and he wore a
strange helmet which seemed to have some medical purpose related
to the thinness of his skull which Morlag thought of kissing.
Morlag.

The hulking brute was nearly as big as a horse, and was held down
for nine hours every day in a fitted ceramic assmembly and given
gene modification treatments which would slowly transform him
into something. Everyone thought he was a brutal killer, but in
fact, the charges which had been levelled against him were completely
erroneous, and were created by means of an elaborate conspiracy
performed by several of the poor prisoner's relatives and had
been unable to be detected. Morlag was actually a canary enthusiast
with a propensity for wild flowers, the strongest sensation he
admired was the feeling he got from standing very near a stove
in the winter and letting the heat warm his clothes until they
nearly burned him. In terms of the warden, he was not physically
attracted to the man, but liked his strange face which to Morlag
seemed like a strange orchid, something rare one comes upon
in a wild valley once in a lifetime.

The warden's face was strangely. An odd pink color had spread across it
from years of ingesting a fungus in the prison water supply which the
warden was subtly allergic too, much like the way Japanese men
sometimes blush when drinking sake'. And the warden's helmet was glossy
and looked for all the world like a nacreous mitre thumb whose nail
was to give a pressure transduction reading whose amplitude was expressed
as a blood red 3d mango of veins. Morlag could see the wind register
in the pulsing of the 3d blood mango on the screen of the nacreous
support helmet screen of the warden.

One day the warden died of a brain aneurism.
The next day Morlag completed his gene therapy.
Thin, and pink and shiny, Morlag swam out into the open sea,

a thumb-headed dolphin-turtle
whose penis was a column of canary heads
blowing tweet bubbles to the memory of the
dead paper head warden's vein mango transduction screen.

The prison's fungus came from Persia.
And the prison itself was built like a
vein mango of glossy nacreous stone
submerged in a vast and softly sandy dune.

The new warden was a woman name Klagthilda
whose big round wobbly shoulders appealed to
a prisoner named Moftook whose was made mostly
of Brussel sprouts and Dachsuns.