Body Snatcher

We never say what we mean.
If only we could get a little faster, a little quicker at expressing from soul to mouth without the interference of the blink of an eye. Watching mouths move and words running like hounds over the checkered tabletop cornering the poor trembling fox.
If only we could say what we mean, but we can’t and the saying shapes us into its own meaning, its own message. Its own special code that was forged somewhere beyond the beyond in the realm of the high minded hemispheres, and our poor bodies, now hosts to its alien signature, try to comply.
So confusing, this mess, tangled sinewy. There is the original and the replica, the body snatcher that has penetrated the fortress of self, cornered the fox and is grabbing its throat with spiny teeth to shake it. Such force in numbers, in an organized structure, the new utopia of words, of hounds.
God, why the hounds? Dogs snuffling the earth and catching the scent of the wild and rushing to kill it. Such power in numbers and unity. What of foxes becoming hounds? Becoming that which is eating them alive.
The eating of the enemy. Conquest and consumption as a form of love, love the gravity that pulls bodies together, knits them together compellingly, as a form of hunger. The lust for the taste of the enemy, the other who comes from outside, afar, beyond, the unknown enemy. And once you have been devoured there is no enemy, no other, only self.
If only we could express soul to mouth. Is that relevant? The babble. The invader. Promethean fire that contorts the tongue and vocal chords and makes chaos the supreme ruler.
Loneliness. What loneliness we know when we are the only ones uninfected by the babble. We want it to enter into our sacred dwelling place. Tired of running from the hounds, we let their teeth penetrate our tender flesh, let their snouts press into our red entrails. Eat me up so that I can be one of you! Eat me up so that I can stop running. I am so tired of running…
Moving in organized lines, a diabolical orderliness takes up residence within the body, expresses itself in its motion, in its appearance and actions and spreads mouth to ear, mouth to ear. The babble, the alien screech, invades the body and corners the soul, the delicate being, the true self. Cutting it off from contact with any of its kind, the invader watches the true self starve down in a dark corner. The true self atrophies into brittle nothingness until only the invader remains, licking and scratching itself in satisfaction, expelling more spores in the form of words tumbling from moving lips to creep into young unsuspecting ears.
We never say what we mean. If only we could get a little faster, a little quicker at expressing from soul to mouth without the interference of the blink of an eye, a moment of desperate sleep in which the invader takes control and alters the content.
On the surface the thing looks the same. Within there has been a take over. A fundamental change. The fox lays slain, the hounds lap the blood and grin together in perfect unity and bay with the same mouth that once yapped for the fox. Mouths move and words rush out, hot on the scent of new prey.
We never say what we mean. Only what is necessary to get inside, to penetrate the tower and watch it fall, to taste the flesh of the unknown enemy.