. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


15 December 2000

The Soul Trade

(I don't think I'll keep this one, so it'll live here rather than static. I may re-use the name, though.)

ruddy old men with cigars between
their teeth, protruding at disdainful angles,
mutter in harsh accented voices
the soul's value,
the dropping cost
and how it's just too easy nowadays.

this one's too smooth,
no interest for our clients.

this one's scarred,
in all the right places, they said,
dragging their dry rough hands
across it.

it quivered like a body in orgasm.
it will surely fetch a high price.


Some time ago all hope was gone down there, and they could see only by the light of its vacancy. As time wore on, they realized it could never be consumed; disappointment was a catalyst, churning their sweat into a light to see by, but never was the disappointment itself consumed.

They learned to get used to their lot, and didn't even know why they worked to fill their stomachs, why their hearts would still skip a beat when the shafts rumbled in threat of collapse, why the thought of their lovers still stirred desire.

They finally realized the body was stronger than the soul, and its blind, wordless commands could not long be denied. Eventually, they stopped trying to wrestle the body into submission, and fed its desires joylessly, because it was easier that way.

musings of señor prod.

Learning to say 'yes' reflexively isn't so easy, even at the Revolution.


©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-