under the hood

bait, bait, more bait of tailored for unique ones, squishy shrimps for those more adamant on spongy morsel before venturing further into. that abyss beginning to sound like a fairy tale come to life where quick fixes become permanent chunks of house building materials that withstand trials and stress. does not bend, does not break, tweak a little to adapt with flexible arms stretched out wide and a grouper chews down on wriggly red worms screaming for attention. they are like neon lights in a vast ocean of nothing, then the house calls, the tap dance, the entertainers come along to wipe stinky sweat from a hard day's work. ain't that better? of course it is, the nervous chatter begin with anxious ones predicting a catch. then the fisher casts a net of a different kind, where nudges are felt, cold chill is infused with a calm detonation, goes off with red alarm bells let off the hook and a stupor fades into a home shaky. it's collapsing, with maintenance requested going out by the dozen, with iron and nails hammering into each nook, crevice that was not there a moment before, because the master of the house is paying the bills. it's there. find it, find the boogeyman. so they did as they were told, though nothing was amiss, the net tightened till it became a nervous chuckle when the mayor inquired what's going on? still he took the check, winked at slits and sink holes not quite there. took an invoice, billed for each line item made real through belief. the winds howled, the sky darkened, the master rested on his couch, calm as the eye of a cyclone, able to at peace because he has done all he could when the spine no longer feels the cold wraith moving straight into bull's eye. the heart weeps, collapses when the warmth spread from decades of building vanishes with a loathsome hanging corpse grinning in mid-air. takes up all the wine, honey and ember, apparates back into a fisher's pouch for safe keeping. mountains of gold erected upon layers of dreams with dazzling delights echoing in a forest desolate, with nymphs and goatherders relishing with green eyed monsters breaking out of shells. what thin shells, with clothing sliding off, with appearances becoming more feral to chase the nectar humming alive like a thousand bees heading home. the cheeky demeanor of comfortable clouds floating without work, lavished with the sun's blessing and heated birds making love. then feral turns to grins when they too join the joyous parade where the harsh glare of light insults not history already erased for groaning days, years no longer able to bite. reel in slowly, the dense air parts, the mist becomes galloping reindeers flying out of sinkholes and slits not made up - the moaner wails that horror has come, the bemused onlookers see nothing but heralds making way to the pulpit, to proclaim glad tidings of prosperity when cursed nights remain defeated foes. red alarms sound back when all that electricity is drained away, trapped. comes back like a coiled spring pouncing back to life, heaves, wrestles, struggles to warn circuits making sense of troubled seas beneath smooth skin. a happy face breaks up with pimples, like a teenager splattered with dots, tries to cover those ghastly tell tale signs with a shrug. but shrugs only go so far before the holes swell up, the fisher reels the line in. then. it becomes clear what under the hood means when the catch is fresh, the catch is trapped, they never had a chance from a fallen angel who now too feels calm, collected, joyous even when misery loves company and memories of golden days remain out of touch for e v e r . . . . . .