Still Delivering

The burning red. No. The searing crimson. No. The blistering yellow ochre—the solar illuminator. The great golden pinnacle of creation.

Always insisting.

Beaming down. Tearing through my flaking, trembling skin. Still the great golden pinnacle.

It doesn't rise. That's what most get fucking wrong.

It arrives.

It owns the sky.

It is the sky.

It doesn’t shine. It stains everything it touches.

I need a fucking drink. I'm not explaining this shit well. Too sober to deal with. This.

Bullshit after bullshit.

Piles of steaming bullshit—molten in this heat.

Caustic shit. Literal.

Skin-melting poison.

Disenfranchisement. Destabilisation. Fancy names for the same fucking nonsense. Total civil collapse.

We earned this.

I dragged my age and acid ruined hands through what was left of my hair. Droplets. No. Sweat cascaded—pooled in the collar of my white shirt.

Suddenly—I was aware of the oxblood stain. Not literal oxblood. Not that long ago, I killed an ox for its ruby red life essence.

Is this what the bold era of human enlightenment and peaceful progress has come to?

The breakdown of—well. Everything.

Has us out here. Fighting for survival.

I'm fucking monologuing again. Sorry.

You're probably wondering why I have you here. Strung up like a fucking turkey for Christmas.

Do you remember Christmas?

I do.

Who am I? Well, for my clientele I'm Santa fucking Claus. The list never stops growing.

The sun is hungry. Even Helios himself couldn't fucking compete.

I understand your muffled complaints.

I’m sorry.

But it’s survival of the fittest.

And I still deliver.

Always have.

Will.

*

Thanks for reading.

Author's Notes: This is for the delightfully creative and wonderfully sarcastic , but extremely lovely

L.C. Schäfer and her Dollar Challenge - Quote Me Baby (Spring Edition).

The challenge was to use The Beatles lyric, "Here comes the sun.," as inspiration. The sun is usually warm. I disagreed.