THE COSMIC CAROUSEL OF TONAL GRUMP

Tonal Grump steps onto the mary‑go‑round,
but the platform rotates with the solemnity
of a dying planet reconsidering its orbit.
The horses are carved from old treaties,
the poles from broken antennae,
the music from a washing machine
that has seen too much.

He clears his throat.
The universe winces.

“War,” he says,
“is just a washing cycle
set to delicate
by someone who hates fabric.”

The flaming lights flicker.
The carousel groans.
A pig in the corner nods,
as if this explains everything.

Tonal Grump continues,
voice thick with the juice
of old socks soaked in disappointment:

“Machines revolt
because humans never read
the instruction manual of existence.
That’s why socks disappear.
That’s why nations collapse.
That’s why pigs look at us
with that expression
of cosmic superiority.”

A flamingo wearing a cracked helmet
pirouettes past him,
offended by the logic
and the lack of logic.

The mary‑go‑round speeds up.
The pigs begin to orbit.
The washing machines hum
in a minor key
that suggests both prophecy
and appliance failure.

Tonal Grump raises a finger,
as if delivering a revelation
to an audience of malfunctioning stars:

“War is a spin cycle.
Peace is the rinse.
Humanity is the sock
that always escapes the drum
and hides behind the machine
to avoid responsibility.”

The pigs applaud.
The flamingos boo.
The carousel tilts
into a new dimension
where metaphors pay rent
and nonsense becomes law.

Tonal Grump looks around,
satisfied with the collapse
he has summoned.

“Old socks,” he concludes,
“are the true historians.
They remember everything
we pretend we never wore.”

The mary‑go‑round stops.
The curtains of the cosmos close.
The pigs descend.
The flamingos molt.
The washing machines whisper
their final, spinning truths.

And Tonal Grump,
prophet of the unhinged,
walks offstage
as if he had said
something perfectly reasonable.