The Wax Conspiracy

transmission from Margo Utomo

[The] way forward has become clear now. Emaciated some, save for a paunch, with low slung shorts and a swagger that shoots from the hip but was never earned. Not never earned.

GlaxoSmithKline memory. Malarone xxmg, first to cross the Berlin Wall. Sitting in a Parisian cafe a feathery moustache smokes a galouise and reads the daily Gazette. A two-fer that is known colloquially as a galette - cinq francs, cinq francs six.

Tough times these. This is no age to be reckless. This is the time for fluffing pillows and burning bridges. Stray from the path and you'll find yourself dragged up a tree by your own insides. This is a metaphor: the insides are mine; and you are the leopard.

Arcane marks on the knees are spelled out by mosquito teeth. These are no stars, however, just more salt and pepper divination. Are there even stars in this impoverished nation where even the horses spit green?

Probably, but I've been too busy trying to coax pink and white and red to my face to notice these things. We do what we can.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Tuesday, 3 December 2013

The Wax Conspiracy

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