A Parable (Of Sorts)

 

 

Progress is made in such ways as Sure & Cut Here & Bomb the Temples. We fed growth hormones to the angels for weeks then fed them glass to study the angles at which they fell from the sky. Froze the stars with radon gas to charge a surtax on light. In the barracks where we scientists slept the Great Radio would instruct us further. Under our pillows our protractors & holy polarimeters. Some terrorists rigged the particle collider to blow we relocated to the countryside, paid the farmers in data & slaughtered the sacred cows. Harpoons of spirit concentrate let loose in vaporous spurts, we siphoned the savage matter, refined it & pasteurized into a chemical cocktail, pumped it in through pneumatic tubes & increased our oral anatomies by 200%: elocutionary state of the art. That winter our tongues turned black, satellites began to topple from space. Beached on earth their frazzled husks hemorrhaged sparks. Helium rockets barely braved flight, skimming sky before lost in the atmosphere. All fuses refused. We returned to the sacred cows but the supply had been mercy-scalped, the ancients absconding to the west. Back in the barracks we found the tables had been lined with scalpels, the Great Radio told us the answer was inside us all along. Go ahead, it decreed, make your contribution: Just leave your blood tithe at the door.