Stand thy feet and clap thy feet and clap thy hands and wiggle thy tumors and gnash thy teeth.

We are filled with sediment and dripping with juice and our meats are but borrowed from our ancestors.

Scorn them with thy pilfered bodies.

The story must be told.

The story must be told.

St. Luscript bless us, and St. Rictus inspire.

Lady Wet nap wipe us, and Lord Heathcliff shake us lest we squirt. We're always dirty somehow,

so find a use for yon filth. And now a psalm, gifted to us by stealthy drippers.

There was a dozen of us on the factory floor.

Our labors a song of gears churning, of liquid sloshing, and the rancor of greases.

Little Chin Tub was married just the last week,

and we took 15 minutes from labor to enjoy a cake, Petrinsky made from yeast and flour and sweat,

so that upon completion each of us was ill with mystery. A slobber down his lip, little chin tub swayed at his station,

and slick with hot, hot sweats. His wedding ring slid to join the gears. Yeah, it was no great

surprise when he reached his fist inside, and the air grew steamy with red,

and the leavings of his feculent fear he lost the fist at once, and we envied him for his time off.

Course, what did surprise us was how he kept reaching to his elbow of the left to the shoulder

of the right till he was but too limned and crying.

When he came back, he was a supervisor who wore his wedding ring on his big toe.

That one got me dizzy, and in my spinning,

a gurgle rose within me which tasted of peppers

and sounded of stewing swamp.

...