Splat open the ventricles, the aorta, and turn the atrium inside out. Dig-dug, screen and pool into an empty egg carton, a former club sandwich ingredient repository.
Pre-pour toska marks the last of the idolatry. Potato print that bitch to see what patterns are offered to the galley. Decipher that shit ‘cause you can’t keep not coming home of an evening to avoid the bed you made yourself.
Time for a break: lactic acidosis contamination clearance demands time. Give it six lovely lonely months – instructions on a tag, a cigarette pack, coded in a book that’ll never split its spine, ISBN: 9780099511892: page 30, word 74; page 45, word 16; page 298, word 294; page 325, word 80; page 477, word 95.
When the time is right someone will undone the iron lung latch, and I will brush off the white chalk burial jacquard and rise and rise and rise, but not a second premature...& yet & yet & yet such a killer smile.
Splat went what jaws and when and how and why? Which idiot didn’t see this coming, these plays taken from the neo-liberal handbook?
This isn’t science; this is white men in grey suits pointing at white()boards marked with a red ink that is slowly bleeding to black. It’s just a numbers game now.
For even the slightly sensitive the taste of toska is unimaginable, staining the atmosphere like ozone, perceptible at as little as 10 ppb for those who choose to percept it.
To all of you people who celebrated efficiencies gained at the expense of someone else’s wage or someone else’s work/life balance or someone else’s standard of living, you won.
Such small club sandwich lives guaranteed by corroboration and complicity; such ugliness of character and purpose, most noticeable on those who showed up the first day in new fineries
The ink isn’t dry on the galley proofs, but what makes you think they won’t move on you again? I hope you choke.
What and where now?
Written on Saturday, 19 April 2014