They
shamble across the cinema screen on broken limbs and snatch at girls
with long blonde hair. In the closeness of your home they explode in
satisfying blossoms of rotting flesh at the flick of a trigger. Their
scabby hands reach out at you with stiff cardboard fingers from the
comic book display stand. When you walk home at night, you catch them in
silhouette, stumbling through the shadows, confused, drunk, and lost.
They sit slack-faced opposite you on the bus, their will ground away
by the constant rasping of the parasites buried deep in their skulls.
And as you walked in duty-free sandals over the soft ground of the
tropics, did you not stop to see the quiet graves where infant wasps lay
spring-loaded in the chests of their comatose prey?
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