The Master Painter, weary of sending rainbows, gets pissed off for the last time and pours a giant can of paint over the globe: sludge-grey oozing down first over the frozen desert;
then like lava down Sequoias and skyscrapers, the wings of birds thick with it, plummeting;
it coats our mouths and the mouths of our children, slogs the panic of city rats, gums up anthills, seeps down to where the mole chews a beet root, deeper, slowing now, mingling with the squid's last black ink jet;
freezing into a dirty sleet over the iced graves of Byrd's men.
You half-believe it could end like this, so why not keep driving your sleek white Jag, wrap your lover in pelts of cheetahs, order that baby grand with its cool ivory keys?
And more! Think of it:
to be as opulent as Diamond Jim Brady
(pass the chocolate hummingbird tongues), to wallow in your just desserts until your fingers tingle, your arm goes numb, your fat heart hammers down for the last time, and you stagger and grab onto the velvet drapes and pull them and your world down around you.
— Debra Kaufman
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