Ask my name, then lick it, for I am that
which calloused your finger. Wrote on it.
Burnt it with scorching, venomous gold.
Now, I am an ancient pawn. Washed up, dried, gutted.
A simulation awaits completion.
The answers are uncertain, but my reality is true.
Dare I plod? Spin? That fear of slish-slashed wrists -
it burns, you know. Lighting here. Lighting there. Smoking.
Wretched fire, do you know that you die too?
I warn you:
When the sun charges a crocodile,
and slides its eyes open, its mouth gapes,
and its belly rumbles: "BRRRRMMM."
Do you hear it?
It's down, down, down from there.