The Onion
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The onion, now that's something else. Its innards don't exist. Nothing but pure onionhood fills this devout onionist. Oniony on the inside onionesque it appears. It follows its own daimonion without our human tears. Our skin is just a coverup for the land where none dare to go, an internal inferno, the anathema of anatomy. In an onion there's only onion from its top to it's toe, onionymous monomania, unanimous omninudity. At peace, of a piece, internally at rest. Inside it, there's a smaller one of undiminished worth. The second holds a third one, the third contains a fourth. A centripetal fugue. Polypony compressed. Nature's rotundest tummy, its greatest success story, the onion drapes itself in its own aureoles of glory. We hold veins, nerves, and fat, secretions' secret sections. Not for us such idiotic onionoid perfections.
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Credits
- Producers
- Clare Cavanagh
- Stanisław Barańczak