The Wax Conspiracy

Running a breeze that's long winded

Sweat plies a lucid transcript of evaporation on the neck. Grime carving a niche underneath the fingernails as the pressure of life gets the better of two halves. One for the west, one for the south. Both in dire need of winning the fight over the last can of water. Where that can lies, however, remains to be seen.

Much like the rock. Tight in the palm; fast on the down swing. Burden of slight fright on the first might, each successive connect for the thirst. For the thirst on each second third. Smooth to a point for the wild and hairy gushing of raw emotion. Water and food made fodder if wooed.

Breaths breathe breathing, heaving highs on rights. To the side, down the middle and right between the eyes. Visions burn over sights of splendour in the grass. Cans and bottles and the trickling whistle of liquid into the solid mass of ground underfoot.

Underneath where the soil breaks they burn cakes of coal with a flavour of soles. Corporate fire walkers, the idiots with wallets in mind for a remedy of sweaty feet made dry with a smell that singes.

In the web of fingers lie the lies that finger the soul. Hand it over now, it's time for a breather.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 5 December 2007

The Wax Conspiracy



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