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.