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.
“M_mng down at Saville Row” said the scrap on the ground. There, in the midst of nothing else to do, was something to rubberneck about. The A and Is missing from tears in the paper, pocked with pin pricks.
Sunset snaps on synapses via optic nerves nervous already about degenerated maculae. Light sloughs at the interior posterior dulling keen vision – keen in the British sense, mind: of enthusiasm, eagerness.
Smearing across the brow, trickling down the side of the face, not melted chocolate, but the expanse of blood out from the skin underneath. Another Easter road toll, and this bell gongs for 10 to the nation and make their way off the course and into the sidelines forevermore.
Ready at the teller, the bank salivates at the thought of a stolen cache of debit card data. There one day, gone the next, funds from your bank account. Maybe $50. Maybe $100. But enough to draw you closer to the zero balance. And they wait.
Carry on a wayward trio, the top three states from the last outing are back at it again as the end of the Christmas and New Year holiday road toll ends with a forty and one as NSW triumphs once more unto the bleak.
Sunset ushers a golden glow where the day is about to end and the night, the oncoming evening, is ready to be done with as you please. All the worlds in a sense of open opportunities before bed and the snooze strikes at 21:00 local time.
Prices for coffins and makeshift cement pits are not exactly the only cause to mangle your body into a bundle of bones. But at least when you’re screaming high unto the sky in a blinding light you don’t think about how this Easter is a quieter one nationally. Eight at the end.
Again, before the due date arrives, the library shelves stock books no one will read and that will pass lonely, more under the dust, at the annual (but not annual enough) book sale. It is a purge more than anything, and the smell of fresh pages butting against the mould is only enough.
Liberty takes its freedom from the metallic jaws of life, wrenching guts and entrails from the side of the road to reveal that spirits are up as the bodies are high. We're 35 for the Christmas and New Year national holiday road toll and it's a bang up job to bang up a write-off with NSW at the headless.
All Christmas is, the one with the Santa Claus dropping mysterious packages into homes and running off before coffee-stained guards have a chance to ask "Whose bag is this?", is a way for people to get together and suppress the minorities in a way that makes it feel inclusive.
Ducked it for too long, but got caught with that right-eye glaze – that deckled edge on the lens awards cataract wisdom... & not much else. Call it, -tribution: ripped of a prefix and left for dead.
Smiles are paralysed senses on the brink of laughter or outright breaking down into saltier and saltier marshes. The mouth, turning up at the face of all that is sad or rather mundane, is really looking to run and take care of itself. Away from your face. That liar in the mirror.
Starts and fits. No words for the leprotic when the bacteriotherapy fails to take. Bacteriotherapy, bacteriophage, it just more dissimulation: false promises and double bottoms.
