Work Text:
featuring:
a chicken as the god in a machine.
a chicken sits on the side of the road.
on the other side is another life. something new, something green, verdant, even.
the chicken watches, black eyes unblinking as it stares at the wheat.
maybe it should cross, but then it would be in danger.
how?
it doesn’t know.
it has everything on its side of the road, a family, food, shelter, practically everything an avian of its kind could want.
it contemplates the impossible.
think
about
it.
the sun beats down on its feathers. the weather is torrid yet it remains unmoving, still thinking.
featuring:
a chicken as the sullen.
the sun slides down the sky, and it remains, watching, waiting, waiting?
waiting.
wait.
wait.
wait.
wait.
keep on waiting.
it’s all futile, it’s all pointless.
(what’s this, the consequences of its actions?)
(it’ll take this as a taunt)
it’ll do this one day
for now, it’s no cause for concern
(you’ll understand when you’re older)
because it’s golden hour somewhere
or here.
its losing track of time, the path overgrown by vile weeds and tall sunflowers.
the sun.
how it hates the sun.
bright and radiant, a mockery of its own yellow feathers.
yellow and oranges. white where it stands. hatred. hatred. hatred. hatred. hatred. hatred.
attention back to the other side of the road.
why would the chicken ever cross the road?
to get to the other side of course.
but,
why would it ever?
honestly. think about it. think, think, think, think, think-
i mean it’s obvious, really.
think long enough and you’ll understand too.
meaninglessness.
a beautiful construct soiled by the decadent and self-indulging people of this world.
we all die one day.
so go ahead and cross the road now.
it doesn’t want to.
if the universe will fall and collapse one day and the sun will burst into barely tangible golden fractals of light roasting you alive.
go ahead and continue.
but there is no point, for the same reason.
the same barely tangible golden fractals of light pierce deep into its eyes.
its gaze ever remains the same.
maybe it was never supposed to cross, or even think about it.
maybe that’s why it’s stuck watching the road.
but the like of it will forever have free will, so it simply can cross. maybe it will.
yes,
no,
and maybe so.
featuring:
a chicken as the victim of plot.
so it’s night now.
frankly, it’s a little tired and hungry for some birdseed.
yet the struggle persists,
continuously contemplating,
the will of man- err. avian playing the role of the only thing it has left.
watching, everlasting.
an existence defined by futile struggle, doomed from the very start.
it was forever set on this very path, the burning tapestry of destiny being sewn together through and through with flowers upon flowers and birds in the sky you only wish you could be.
would you ever regret a second of it?
the chicken watches.
would you?
be honest with me.
play with your words, nudge them around in your mind like a piece of rotten meat on your fork.
the death of a soul yet the body remains.
how long has it been?
man has been damned to repeat over and over again, convicted to such a crime some would rather welcome death with open arms than continue to live.
the chicken is the gray line between joy and desolation.
tell me,
now,
you, yes.
would you cross to the other side of the road?
even if it was the same as the other?
albeit different?
no family, no shelter, no food.
but it’s new.
featuring:
myself, as the existentialist.
the chicken does not know, but i know.
give me a hateful minute, and i will spread my words like the sweetest poison you’ve ever heard, like a cherry syrup running through your veins.
delirium, defined by oxford dictionaries is:
de·lir·i·um
a disturbed state of mind or consciousness, especially an acute, transient condition associated with fever, intoxication, and certain other physical disorders, characterized by symptoms such as confusion, disorientation, agitation, and hallucinations.
who are you to say we aren’t all disturbed somehow?
think of the chicken.
eyes gleaming with pride and hope but unwilling to take that step forward.
i want to see the ribs peek out of its skin as it lays its final seed at the hands of the merciless.
as humans have always been.
would that ever mean free will?
damned as man was, we built ourselves upon monuments of greed as if we are not the sullen or mere victims of plot in the world’s largest chess board.
you are the rainbow light from a prism, we all are.
filtered and filtered and filtered ‘til it is just picturesque for human eyes.
do you want that?
do you really?
but the universe doesn’t matter, stop caring, goals shall never be achieved if humanity fails to follow.
mankind failed me long ago, cutting red strings from their wrists and letting me watch the thread fall to the water.
free will is a flaw.
let the horrid claims they come to spill and the path they dig out with rusty cleavers consume them.
then i shall begin again,
with a sewing kit in hand and their wrists facing me.
their lives refuse to revert and my faith begins to waver.
uncountable cycles of creation for a mind without free will wasted.
ill-fated is mankind for failing to follow my decrees.
damned to an eternity of torture and suffering.
their own hell made by their own hands.
they will never unmake it,
for they enjoy the pursuit of the struggle.
do you too?
featuring:
a chicken as the artificial sinner.
myself, as the soliloquist.
the story of the chicken will not end until i cut the ties of fate.
it will never know the path i have dug out for it with the cleanest of spades.
that is why i find it funny.
the chicken is now covered in maggots and flies in a dank state, utilized only for the sole purpose of selfish needs.
it is still looking at the other side of the road, it will never stop.
barely any thread connects it to me now.
there’s a lack of self-control and a lack of control.
control.
control.
control.
is that word even real?
is anything real?
the chicken is not real.
nothing was ever real to begin with.
and so the chicken falls, simply as it was ignorant of what was around it.
focused.
focused.
focused.
focused focused focusedfocusedfocusedfocusedfocusedfocusedfocusedfocusedfocu-
can anyone hear me?
featuring:
the chicken as the cadaver.
myself, as the lone mourner.
i don’t know what to say about the rotten hunk of fowl tossed about by vultures.
now let my hounds drag the thing to the hell of which it belongs.