Bums' Rush Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold.                                                                Swinburne Becoming an eskimo isnt hard once you must. You start by going far way, perhaps another landmass, into the jungle of cold air and make a room a cave a hold in the surface with your axe. Furnish it simple like devils island carve a ledge for effigies and another to sleep on. Land of the midnight sun it keeps you awake turns ice walls      blue there are blue ice walls the effigies a bled white silhouette / wrapt in a fur you try not to remember but its easier just to      let go and be re-tried re-convicted re-crucified after a few years you      even forget to bleed. Blue all year like a duke's veins like her eyes might have been once when she had eyes. Freezing to death is the cleanest place      on earth. And identity you need not concern yourself with names you are the last of your species. The worst pain is the morphine blue crevasse and real eskimos never mind that. Their hallucinations are red-etched norse      demons they etch those on stone make fifty copies and sell them at      cape dorset. In the early winter mornings sometimes you will hear the snow winds blowing in on you soon then you will become impatient as lost souls do you will think you hear someone calling when it comes to that all you need do is take a last look at the effigy collection say farewell to friends you may have made among the graven      images then walk as a human lemming would out across the bay to where the ice is thinnest and let yourself      vanish.

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