The seal is broken. Apparitions rise,
suspended in tiny, bursting bubbles.
Pandora was a brewess. The
recipe: cold brewed hops,
barley, the risk of dredging up
all of life’s frustrations. (You, Ticking
Time-Bomb)
Pass me another cold one. The
contents are frosty (Taste the rocky
sense of self-assurance) and
flash-freeze the insides. No
wiser after drinking this ambrosia.
Dull the wits, dull the senses,
the maelstrom below is
frozen solid. Inert. (Time to
have some fun)
More slush (can’t stop this
train). Heaped, compressed layer.
Brilliant blue glacial shelf.
(Can’t feel a thing)
But active cores cannot be contained
by fickle materials. Fissures
form. Geysers of steam escape
into the stratosphere. (You’ve had too much)
The spirits seek release.
Expel the frothing contents that
scrabble and scratch the throat.
(If you hadn’t stopped
you wouldn’t feel this either)
Do not forget. This ritual is
not only your inheritance, it is
your heritage.
(It’s in your bones, Kid. (And this is why
we can’t have nice things))
Jason Thames Fiction 