Bored with stagnation, the 3 Great Ices of Neptune agreed to become semi-frozen slush in the forms of the heretofore unknown Roman Gods, Waterman, Ammoniaman, & Methaneman, their symbols respectively a jug, a toilet, and a cow. Stan Lee rolled his eyes. The end.

Doc: Lifelong bad food & environment’ve put you at risk for Agonizing Death Syndrome.

Patient: Bah. Organic veggies? Load of crap. Gimme more antibiotics.

Doc: In your case, it’s heavy metals. But I have a homeopathic fix. (Raises iron bar.)

Neptune’s god parties are legendary: sushi on the fin, eggs in lobster, & crab-legs w/ eyes, washed down in saltwater taffy infused kelp wine. In the warm, festooned grotto, fine clothing discarded, passions erupt in typhoon & tsunami.

The women boycott the office party. It’s a stingy affair, kegs dead, jackets already buttoned for exit. He bitches about taxes & he’ll sink on that skiff but it’s the lawsuits that broke him. He hands scratch cards to the guys leaving; maybe they’ll get lucky.

A stumble-bum hippie, Gramps puts up the silver tree w/ death lights & hosts the family dinner. Food w/ sparkle: turkey; peyote stuffing; jimsonweed potatoes; pumpkin pie w/ Ecstasy ice cream. Deja vu all over again when someone flies off the roof.

In a verdant meadow fragrant with wild rose blossom, Robbie Burns’ ghost, pen-less yet forever poetic, composes lines on the delights of lasses sprawled careless in the grass & revealing pale expanses of arm & leg to the sun’s lewd & fiery kisses.

Without the matrix of connectivity, knowledge bites are dead flowers.

How the holdback colony had been resurrected as metallic statues solidified in mid-stroll was anyone’s guess, but we touched down among the ancient dead, eager to experience every earthly delight. Hell began w/ the clubbing of our feet. (Photo: Iceland)