Away with the gentle country, cruel times are here. Cows low in the fields, titties full of milk and gon’ burst, but there’s no one to work the teats. Beasts bred to produce milk are neglected as global consumption quotas shift.
Ants writhe in formic hell and are mistaken for the unmistakable sound of liquid nitrogen: a rhythmic gymnastic of chemicals. Manuel Puig inspiration time. Witness the macaronic flow of language traverse the bars and float across the prison floor. Shut down. Pulling.
Streetwalkers walk and try to make an honest buck. More fearsome than the woman-hating john is the clergy, who gently sidle up and tell them their broken kind is no longer welcome here.
Away with the gentle country, cruel times are here. Six shillings for the goat, three back for the skin: food for the family, for thought, for the end-times to come. Cans in the attic, a rifle by the stairs, and a mirror to fix the stare: the look that travels direct as the crow flies.
Inverse chemistry; backwards reactions. Peak heights are measured against the standard and quantified. Medicine is divvied and distributed accordingly.
Build it and they will come.
goodbye, cruel world
Written on Sunday, 13 February 2011