fuck at the mercy seat.

The well wishers sat below the skanky statue, all graffitied and buried in pigeon poo.

They hope and prayed for better days as the goat was lifted to be sacrificed.

It was an old tradition.

It followed on from an era long ago. A famine, when a supposed miraculous goat had kept the children of the village well fed and watered through a long miserable time.

To celebrate, bizarrely, they would throw a goat from the church steeple. Or the priest would.

And the crowd, drunken, down below, would fight to catch the flailing beast. Before it splattered, injured, surely dead or dying, into the giddy crowd below.

No sense in this sacrifice. Except that for the cost of the life of one billy goat, the village full of human dwellers, and all their local relatives, and passersby and tourists, all came together in a festival, a feast, a gluttonous bout of revelry. Pissed. shit faced. larva-ed. Belly ached. Vomiting. Shit.

The cost of togetherness is high amongst the humans. Generally they hate one another. Stay well clear. unless a certain level of trust, or interest, is generated through similar, or amusing behaviour.

And togetherness? what then? Well then the continuation of social living. togetherness was safe, is safe. Alone is frightening, dangerous.

It’s the booze and the drugs that enable it. togetherness. If not amongst the women, then definitely amongst the men. They forget. Which is a close rendition of accept. Forget is close, then, to loving. The drunken blood eyed version of loving. the swollen vein. the bulging eyeball. bulging anus. fat tongue. red skin loving.

not all the time though.

I’ve heard there are sober people among us. still heads. quiet thoughts. straight types.

Others, like myself, can’t even cycle straight. We need pain killers to move.

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