Toxic Bliss (5)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (5)"
    
   And a heart-shaped box from the visitors, glowing with a gleam unearthly, resonating from True Divinity, and the more-than-nuclear hands of angels making a delivery in 30 minutes or less.  Simon noticed nothing save the weight of his father in his arms, uplifting the downtrodden to a toilet bowl sanctuary, the patriarch's tears flowing with an almost irritation to both father and son, as they always did, testing true patience, and then, a bowel evacuation--a true release of internal pressure, and a child's smile on his demented, yet so beautiful face of gold.
   Simon returned him to his safety chair, fed him yogurt with strawberries, a glass of green tea, and a handful of pills to be choked down; next, he took his own, juggling two diseases; plus, his psychiatric interference, dismissing the political soundbites of Sunday morning news, where bullshit is always the topic of the day--they always say "Middle Class" and not FREAKING POOR PEOPLE, especially knowing that stress outshines genetics where so many cancerous things are concerned.
   No order of the day for angels, locked in eternal combat with the fallen, and it all denied, yet the sub-culture pushes and drops hints of tangible truth, yet dubbed pseudo-science and the rest, that American Green in the bank making it easier to golf, party, count your bland achievements, while denouncing with your pornographic glee, the impotence of others, working harder to please the benevolent hearts of those crowned by weakness.
   Next, Simon did find a smile upon glancing his thin, lean body; he was animated by something Otherworldly--had to be to complete all the labor he was engaged in, knowing his small frame transcended muscle--dude was all gristle, growing more grizzly steel by time uncounted.