|from government file A7YT Gazelle Panda. Proof of lampost, in reflection. Copyrighted, Isadora Gruye Photography.|
From government file A7YT Gazelle Panda
Proof of anarchic sub culture: article 1764
From the personal gmail account of Isadora Gruye, August 11, 2012.
Re: personal challenge
(though large portions of the original message were redacted in the interest of national security, beekeepers, and cartographers, the context of message remains whole and intact. For the first time, this authentic message is presented to you, the Real Toads community)
Hi, Izy! It's my turn to issue someone from Toads a Personal Challenge. Here is my challenge for you, though you have the option to decline. If you can't do it, please let me know so that I can challenge my second choice.
Here is your challenge girl: Feel The Burn. I want you to write something that has to do with fever. You could write about a personal fever, either physical or otherwise, or about a wider fever such as an epidemic or a panic.
You up for it, lady? Let me know. :-) (end of message)
Government sources deeply embedded in the “poetry” counter culture confirm that these sorts of renegade challenges are commonplace. If you read the response below your personal safety and moral well being cannot be guaranteed. The freedom of information act requires it is provided to you in its entirety. Reader beware, the following piece of propaganda attempts to intertwine the ideals of fever from childhood to sex to melancholia. Though not contagious, per say, its ideals are wavering at best.
knocking honey in her comb
The night John Lennon was shot,
her fever set on quickly
from an untreated ear infection.
(she was a good baby and never fussed,
how could momma have known)
Her tiny body convulsed,
and pearly white spittle
rose from her blistered breast fed lips.
Momma set her in an ice bath
until the ambulance arrived.
She spent a week swaddled
in hospital issued diapers.
She would have to relearn how to walk,
how to babble the words
she had spoken so clearly before.
The plain boy from the coffee shop
taught her phrases, eloquent and brutal:
knocking honey in her comb.
The leather restraints rubbed her wrists raw,
but afterward he kissed them profusely,
bowing in worship of her
and her breasts.
The heat off their backs
brought a soft sweat
which made her IKEA sheets
smell like nutmeg.
The water smells
of saffron and urine,
and the roughness of the riverbed
bites her bare feet.
She is not Ophelia
not Anne of Green Gables.
All the same, the embankments
are shaking with sadness
and her forehead is hot with worry.
She wades a bit further into the water,
dipping her wrists across the currents.
She’s trying so hard to forget
how to babble
the terrible thoughts
she knew so clearly before.