Genocidahlias

‘Genocidahlias’ she said… When I asked which flowers were sitting on her bathroom window sill… The nights had drawn in, and we were recovering from a long and relentless summer… Too much heat for my liking - though at least it helped me earn those few extra dollars from deforestation, and incubate those eggs I had been experimenting on in my bedroom… We sipped a glass of straw coloured Chablis - lovely… whilst witticising our thoughts on their wind-up war… I remember saying, “the problem with the whole thing is they’re not set up for diplomacy the way that we are,” as we delved into our wild boar with lashings of viscous sauce… Apart from the food, another smell fascinated me - drifting toward our table from the corner… That dungeon of delight with its strange attraction shedding deeply perfumed petals to the floor… “Genocidahlias… what a wonder, what a great mystery to uncover… I thought about the creatures in my room that must have hatched out by now - that were probably, as we spoke - gasping for air under the glass containers… I know they’ll settle down soon; and learn how to breathe like I do - the way we will have to in order to survive as a species… Soon enough we moved onto the exciting prospect I could hardly bear to put off for a second longer… the subject of those flowers that were waiting in her ornate bathroom… She told me that the medicine obtained from these flowers could keep many more societies in order than just our current little test - making things a lot easier… She said, “you could even use it on your own little experiments you have over there in your corner…” I said to her, “I do believe that will be necessary for us to obtain and keep our natural world order, and no matter what happens to us - our size will come out thriving as we pass on our fast-take beliefs, blistering through this planet’s thin skin and savouring its sweets… Cut to a long time later… I’m addicted to the medicine… I think I might have lost people I know but I can’t remember… I’m close to freezing, but at least I can still recognise that steely taste of power… In those flowers… But something’s sour… I try to think of the first reason those flowers smelt so good… it was because of my conditioned scent for blood, my tough upbringing into the frame of good… So why am I here with this feeling devouring me? Desperate to look into the eyes of the purity that left me; and gain some kind of sorrowful forgiveness for the things I did... Or am I just dreaming for a fire that will take me, as the scent grows stronger… Suddenly, I remember the real name of those flowers… Gazanias - how could I have forgotten… I stumble to see one growing right under me - fast and free - and am dizzied by the recollection that its name perfectly reflects its warm, fire-like, unwavering presence… A hand from my childhood shakes me in that moment… ‘How could you treat those people like property - numbered growths for aimless experiments?…’ I think about this deeply - pondering rigidly… I’ve been shaped into a projection victim; weak and venomous - too important to admit that I am wrong, after decimating this earth to a lifeless song… Now this flower stains my vision and haunts my heart, its sharpened sweetness singing my tongue - its wound vast and open - and my senses show now that what I tasted before was a sugar-glazed drug… Finally, I must try to restore the truth from this stolen ground I shook… Admit that I am the hellhound - they are the dove… With their glistening warning of love; full of wild, vivid, wondrous colours that directly embody the light of the sun…