Black milk congeals
oozing through the cracks
Thickly flowing down
pooling at the bottom
Viscous strings attach
to your heart
flowing in defiance
upwards – into you
Heaviness and tearing dullness
settle into you
rip at you
nip at you
dissolve your being
leaving hollow coldness
Somehow, I am envisioning Homer Simpson, the eternal scourge of all purveyors of fine and all-you-can-eat buffets.
There is a land not far away. The land of the grey. Just around that bend.
Grey men live in grey houses, thinking grey thoughts all day long in Greyland.
They eat grey meals and drink grey beer and make merry at a game of grey on grey.
Philosophy is sport in the land of grey. Incessant is the argument of the merits of grey and being grey, much better grey than black or white. They can’t change their stripes. Dogmatic are the black and white. Dogmatic to a fault. Shades of grey are much more tolerant and see life for what it really is, an endless sea of grey.
Greyland is content and the great day of grey is fast approaching. Many visitors are expected for great grey festivities. From far and wide will they roam. Some say even the Opaque might come.
On the day of days a man like no other came. A man of strange and bewildering appearance. What manner of grey is he? He is not black or white, certainly not opaque. Strangeness upon strangeness.
Technicolor man strode about in technicolor brilliance. Confusing and befuddling where he went.
Some grey men could not see him for all his color. He was too far from grey.
The grey authorities saw him causing puzzlement, disturbing the unity of grey. Contentment was in danger. The grey men had to act.
Technicolor man will be buried at the first grey of dawn.