Burnt caramel Selective vision. The parched man arrives at the place of the mirage And slumps facedown in the barren sand, unmoving. What else is there to do? The grains, whipped by the wind, scour his face. Molten sugar bubbling black like a caldera, The ripe scent of flesh in the sun. Not tender milk nor honey could hope to compare. I pin myself like a struggling butterfly to a corkboard, spreadeagle, all my soft tender parts exposed. Then there's my Hyde-self in the lab, the lepidopterologist, vivisecting stacks of other samples with a scalpel. ( Don't dish it till you've tried it) Tarot 1. (a priori) 4 of swords, 5 of swords inverted. 2. Inverted Justice, The Moon 3. The Moon (a posteriori) The truth is in your bones. Augur: split your skin and read the signs - great gory fistfuls of entrails, air full of soot, your blood pooling in the dirt all purple and brown with putrification. The cards know before you do: it was all written in the womb, long, long, long ago.