August night is a hellhole, hot as the day and wind that blows comes from a fiery furnace. Open windows in dark interior primal cry of lovemaking, sounds like hate, and wrestling sweaty, wriggling bodies produce a child that soon will die, but first it has to go to the same sick ritual as its parents, what we call love, but is a primitive urge, copulation the planting of a seedling before sinking back underground, spent forgotten; in a mass graves of boredom, decorated with wreaths that radiate the smell of deaths to come. The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon, vanishes forever into an ancient forest, but man dance and fuck the night away.
