What felt soft now feels numb
What felt hard now feels numb
What felt cold now feels numb
What felt warm now feels numb
What felt worthwhile now feels numb
These fingers of mine can only feel Cortopin, itches, and cuts.
It’s the new sensation, and I’m quick to the touch.
Over time, but not too much time, I found myself to be blocked. My head was full of wax, it started to coat the brain. My nose was stuffed with a full roll of tissue, you could pull it out like magic cloths. My mouth, packed with debris. I breathed and ate through a hole in my neck, but even then there was a blockage of syrup to contend with. It spurted out like blood in a zombie flick, and you could spread it on toast.
Then there was my stomach hanging in a web of bubblegum, and the intestines could barely contain all the gravel I swallowed on my travels. My heart pumped against a layer of Lego bricks. I was clogged up, blocked up, fucked up, funked up, gunked up. Continue reading
There she was, my dead grandmother lying in her coffin, waiting to be burned. I felt incredibly anxious studying her endlessly sleeping, noting how her make-up was far better than she ever had it living. I tried to point this out, but no one would listen, insisting she was always a master at powdering. I thought it unwise to bring up her drug past in relation to this, so left the room to have a panic attack about it all somewhere else. Continue reading
He arrived at the bank at 8.45am, clutching a series of filled change bags. Once he’d arrived in front of the queue, he realised that there wasn’t much of a queue at all. Instead he saw a street full of bodies lying on the floor, lying in the road, lying by the door. For a minute he considered a massacre, but he began to notice the sound of snoring, the rising of snot bubbles, and the turning and scratching of backs. That morning the world was still asleep, and he watched the dreamers, simply wondering how much change he had.
You can bite all you want
As long as you want
As hard as you want
It doesn’t mean you’ll break through
I’m making pancakes for me and my friends.
It’s an instant mix, just add water, serves twelve!
I’m cooking them up in quick succession, no flips leave any pancakes undone.
Thick sugary pancakes for everyone, they eat them right up. Add blueberries, add butter, add sauce!
But when it comes to my pancake, well, the mix is nearly done. I add more water, I stretch it thin, I see how far it can be pulled. It spreads itself for me, it spreads itself so thin.
I can see right through it, its pale as my skin. It falls apart in my hands, the edges stick to the pan.
It’s my pancake through and through.
Add blueberries, add butter, add sauce, it still tastes fine of course!
They look so annoyed with those forehead wrinkles showing.
They look so overjoyed, their eyes are glazed over.
That television host keeps smiling. She’s so high, her cheeks keep twitching.
I’d have to ask the stranger sitting in the bushes outside looking into my numb mind.