Lifting the lid off the tub of yoghurt, a fleeting sight of what hath fought the fight in the light of the might. To follow the essence of content and a running desire for the cessation of spiders on the skin. Shown here is but only a year running back from today. Hunted are the months beyond.
Faulty repair jobs are commonplace now. One chink, one hairline fracture, and that's it. Into the bin without nary a thought toward patching things up. You build for churn and disposability. One day you'll wake up and everything will be zero generation once more because history only repeats when you mind the gap. Work to die and drop to your knees clutching your heart when the soul realises there's a better staircase to climb down.
Underground is bathed in pure perfect light like the f-stop on a camera reefed completely open. It's an orgy of photons that sheds light on the squalid permissive prokaryotic little lives that inhabit the undergrowth.
Edge, sword. Line, through. Blood, plenty of it. The crowd is screaming, their yells and hollers echoing against each other. He raises his fists together and beats down upon the plastron. Crack. But nothing. Again. And again another crack. The blood continues, and the audience bays for more. Crack. And the bones tear through the breastplate, the mail, the skin. The gallery is pleased.
Naming the system is easy. It's as easy as naming the person who first described it. The Markov chain, named for Andrey Markov - there, that wasn't particularly difficult. What's more difficult is describing an application.
It's small, but telling. Your son or daughter looks up at you and in their eyes, the ceramic mug flashes. On it, "World's Best Dad". Or you sit down to look for your other eyeball and "World's Best Mum" embroiders the car seat cover. For foster and step-parents, this is a win. Time to polish your dancing shoes. For those who have spurred the little ones from your own loins, now is the time to reassess.
Position: one under the sun. Watching caps peel back like cars pulling away from the kerb. Peel back that overburden and expose the alkenes below. By-product lubricants ice a cake nicely. But what to make of these two Armenian torturers and their antipodean Kiwi slave-driver? Three of them, sadists, glad that Pollack blood spills quicker than Pollack secrets.
Shot through the car and more than maimed, you can see all the bodies in bags claimed. Up over down under and squeezing out joie de vivre from the passenger side, Easter once more promises all that Kinder Surprises cannot. Pieces and bits choking down brown shells to signpost a respectable 22 in the bank. A tip more than double last year's shifting sands of pleading hands with SA clasping all.
Later, much later, it would become apparent just what was housed between those two slices of Forming. All we had at the time was a thin black booklet decorated with the blue circle on the front and, on the back, DC and the closest we would get to a manifesto.
Roaches come in many sizes, often scaled to disgust. Once they break the span of what a non-clawed palm flattens out to be it's gone from scrubbing yourself with a rock found on the beach to kicking out the residents of the terrarium. Eating them is another thing, and that's why you've been wary about the crab cakes.
Chair, chunks, wanton jokes – impotent pieces in this blatantly staged security theatre. Don’t no-no-know ‘em, don’t want to neiva. The one rule is: don't go plastic, maintain hegemony. Dance around opponents, kick up dust, switch, do it again. Trace curve 1, it’s begun.
"Breathe," whispered the mechanic, clutching on the pedal and trying to goose up the engine in the winter's morning. Wheezing and spluttering, the car was doing anything but breathing. The key snapped off in the ignition. The mechanic slumped and fell back. The press whirred, chugging along like a smoker doing a fun run. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The sound of broken glass, everywhere.
Hairball’s chance in hell, that’s what they gave me when they dropped me as a bub. Crack! Right on my head like some sort of counter-cat; fucking rubbish-child, useless. A waste of satin sheets: swaddle tighter and be done with it.
Sad trombone plays to the empty tables, looking on with a two drink minimum. The cigarette smoke coats a fine layer of angst and worry. Last call, too late. Nobody is left to hear the wah-wah.
