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In this slowscape stretch of sunup - night fug fleeing - the shimmer quiverlifts dewback bucking steeds mist groups itself and glimmers in oddlight coagulating now to sly wraithfinger tendrils that grip by many throats the insubstantial airs As the incendiary rose of sun blooms up over wetland a wobbling flamingo bursts forth from literal shrubs ruffling pink feathers - an indeterminate mood. Asymmetrically peering down your offensive bill perfervid bird, you quiz new babyday for hints Mephitic vapours go coating all the gravels and the waters and peeled eucalyptus boughs with a sweaty radiance - fake sheen of time's persistence, clown paint of permanence - denying mutability in the face of axiomatic swampy stinks. But the unconvinced flamingo's incorrupt n' stolid in refusal Flamingo snakes neck to sinuousities - says once: 'Bollocks', speaking distinctly, insistent, an adept of transience - then resumes that silent dubious stalking of the shore reverse knees in defiance of all sense and precedent stoops to crickets and to frogs and to reverences of dawn A wetland goblin now in stained culottes erupts from splashes of surprised water - comedy shoes bogged in miasmic sludge - boos and hoots like all prankery gone all awry, like failed fun. The shocked flamingo says once distinctly: 'Shit' - but doesn't fly away - shimmies as a ruse slow wingtips, makes as if to stretch - and stays.
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Ghostlight of dawn solidifies, mist tendrils dwindle away to clarity. Homunculus dense as planets, stuck in all that kneedeep mud with his undue malice. Day develops ideas, sketching all possible paths. The scene's suspended - observant goblin, bird in depth of wadewater - at last flamingo under goblin's baleful stare picks out a way ahead. Saying once, distinctly: 'Fuck' - the bird vamooses stately as kings into anonymity of high-bobbing reeds to murmur lone foulnesses. Now with that unique and prominent preachspot that he craved - wielding a swaggerstick, in lush Provençal accent like a troubadour - sludgegoblin sings to you and me a scabbed encomium on Time Time's your only enemy Time is not your friend Today your sad beginning Tomorrow your sadder end Pleased - adopting a new tone, John-Wayneish - proceeds the rogue: 'Pilgrim, patssy, pusssy, oh my plausible pard and peephole! I'm all for invitin' ye to a hostelry hootenanny this fair morn - to an Occult Pie Party for Individual Pie-Eatin' Units such as ye - all ye need do: say Yea or Yes or Sí or Oui - assent howe'er ye may.' You agree - no brainer - breakfast is sweet, dinner aeons back. 'Arrooo arrray!' squeals mannikin - 'By Demeter's sweetarse, ye're agreeable!' Then the menu's told by that swampy goblin lad to your very great amaze: 'Ma tripes, bro! You gonna be chowin' on my very innards, swee'pea! A what-they-call sacrifishul rite, kiddo, for restorin' o' th' primal unity!' A seraglio of seconds parade in swamp as this goblin's guts are spread. We chomp and chaw on his chewy viscera, you and I - remember? - as gobbets glop in mire to pepper its funk with iron and with irony. Time drops away - flamingo day comes stalled and it's morning forever. Scratch n' sniff, scat n' snitch, snatch-up n' stitch-up - time's got all seized-up! Not pies we made then of the living squirming tripes, but hyperpancakes folded then in novel origamis of taste and specularity, dimensions laced with that syrupy bite of authentic suffering and ecstasy, mouthfeel dribbling red ick on chins - spicy regret, sugared rage, the salt of bliss - The cavern abdomen of swamp hobgoblin an aching forever of abyss.
GOBLIN by Sarah Phinn Huntley from The Illustrated Field Guide to DMT Entities (David Brown and Sarah Phinn Huntley, Park Street Press, 2025)
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