The Wax Conspiracy

you didn't hear that

Elephant tail switches beat snitches. Natural fibres tan the hide of Sillitoe unrepentants. Sillitoe, silo-lite, my middle name is Don’t Give Anything Away – and my memory is a salt-sink: weighing down contraband thoughts and ideas; waiting for the exit and release of Na+ and Cl- ions that will lighten the load and allow memories indexed by date and relevance to rise to the surface.

Shadow government hangmen veto words, drive verbs away in a (Patty) hearse, then indict others to rot in ditches dug by government bitches. The itch remains the same, buzzing now with tazer twitches. Power-hungry cops beat up on sad flunkies, sugar-dosed scroungy whoppers.

That fry-up you had in your Reg Grundies, stripped down to avoid the spatter of butter and fat... you think they weren’t watching? You think they don’t know? They were hidden in your air vents, sur la table, sous le chat, everywhere, and reporting back – always reporting.

Underhanded photons woo, drown out headphone sounds. THANKS: Hey, thanks. click/buzz Lancets slice through warts and drain blemishes . click/buzz                howl Tread heavy on timpani streets, menacing sounds + ancestor worship.

And they got this thin new Mediterranean cat, where the water is saltier and the water is denser and secrets don’t sink nearly as quick. They catch you towing those secrets out to sea and that’s the end. The rest is a sad little dance to the insane asylum, where, ironically, there is none.

Blurred conversations skate the perimetre – the aim is the conservation of the purity of wavelength, of wavenumber, of amplitude, of sound pressure, of sound intensity, of speed of sound, of direction: of these things with which we utter and are finally hanged.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Monday, 3 December 2012

The Wax Conspiracy

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