Tuesday, June 16, 2009

La Parisienne

All the power runs like honey-flavoured milk from her breasts.

La Parisienne, priestess, tugs at her twirly curls and ambles aimlessly along the sun-baked beach contemplating the virtues of the great mother godess.

I wonder why...

La Parisienne hears the waves crashing gently and the squawks of the seabirds rooting in the tide for titbits, and feels distress.

Further along the beach, young boys and girls laugh and play, practicing bull-leaping on a makeshift driftwood ox.

La Parisienne closes her eyes and sees clearly for a moment the decapitated head of the great ox lying on a great silver tray, it's empty eyes crossed, it's tongue protruding.

Flies buzz around the gilded horns.

It lies in a pool of dark blood.

She shudders.

Ugliness and blood. Not honey-flavoured milk.

La Parisienne forces herself to think.

The bright blue water forms foaming rivulets in the sand.

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