Timothy

Jack's Twisted Kingdom
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2004-04-01 12:01:19 (UTC)

...kill me softly my dark princess

..And while you’re at it, O Muse, sing of the rage of the
gods themselves, so petulant and so powerful here on their
new Olympos, and of the rage of the post-humans, dead and
gone though they might be, and of the rage of those few true
humans left, self-absorbed and useless though they may have
become. While you are singing, O Muse, sing also of their
age of those thoughtful, sentient, serious but
not-so-close-to-human beings out there dreaming under the
ice of Europa, dying in the sulfur-ash of Io, and being born
in the cold folds of Ganymede.

Oh, and sing of me O Muse, poor born-again-against-his-will
Hockenberry - poor dead Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D.,
Hockenbush to his friends, to friends long since turned to
dust on w a world long since left behind. Sing of my rage,
yes of my emrage, O Muse, small and insignificant though
that rage may be when measured against the anger of the
immortal gods, or when compared to the wrath of the
god-killer, Achilles.

On second thought, O Muse, sing of nothing to me. I know
you. I have been bound and servant to you, O Muse, you
incomparable bitch. And I do not trust you, O Muse. Not one
little bit.


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