Drip droplets rolling south down skin is it sweat or condensation on the outside of air conditioning units stationed above and tempted by gravity is it tears for this or that or the other it is probably something more practical than that popped pipes or no pipes or stolen pipes and all the aforementioned elements and blocked guttering but it is becoming a problem and in honesty probably more than that it’s worth noting the silliness of the fact there is no rain here yet liquid is seeping out of every crevice on high on low and filling up the poorly-drained ground below so much in fact that although this balcony used to mark a third floor this could be described as ground level now or at least surface level it’s a conspiracy they say in as much as those below can say through snorkels many periscopes poke to the sky and offer no answers worthy of a question they were dying for solutions beggared as they were by economics and circumstance and psychological traits that didn’t suit either economics or circumstance and maybe this is one of sorts though the psychologies have played their part again and this is woeful under preparation surely if this is the solution then they could’ve sent a mail shot by or something before the levels started rising because people are panicking yes they like to panic at the best of times but this might be something more along the lines of the worst unless you tend towards amphibiousness which some do whatever traits you have it must be recognised that what is damn likely to happen is that this desert is going to fill with water no mirage the real deal it will get its way and only the fish flopping around and the amphibians with their greasy heads will really win though we might all find a way to live with a great mass of water just as we got a handle on land mass after exiting the water in the early days its like the time the basement flooded entirely but the electrics stayed on plugs submerged hardcore though this is obviously bigger as a deal not micro but not macro either the TV flickers a bit as if preparing to take a deep one and dive but it’s still well enough to tell us that this is just here nowhere else no Hollywood show of unity across cities and races as we sink everyone else beyond the horizon is just fine and this is barely getting reported in a sense we like water but we trusted it too much and didn’t keep an eye on it our inattentiveness may be the end as if water has an ego of its own and we shouldn’t have just let it seep around do its thing but maybe taken selfies with it and shown our friends and stroked it sometimes our bad we just thought it would float up light and make clouds that burn in the sun before we see them this is what hot climates are all about surely and if not why not we will not drown nobody has so far and nobody will we will sit on lilos and dinghies until the food runs out tune in live and watch us survive and then not oh hang on hang on now the wet wet wetness which was beginning to get comfortable on the balcony is now slip sliding off an unholy twirl is going round round the surface making bins motorbikes and tree branches circle about each other with all the other wet muck there is definite downward momentum here quickly quickly there is a line on the buildings a visible line where water was and now is not as it turns out there is a plug hole after all and someone has had the tenacity to find it and yank hard at the metal rope of baubles and whatever caused it the dripping air conditioners or whatever is now off the hook and will not face justice I’m a little disappointed if I’m honest the inflation of the inflatables was a wasted effort seriously this is not an apocalypse any more this is a farce a waste of time effort and thought maybe this is what the future looks like a series of minor major crises seemingly amounting to nothing until they amount to something very big indeed all we’ve got to look forward to now is a sort of dry damp gaggle of quickly evaporating puddles and a rough count million mosquitoes hatching out of their little eggs looking for their first square meal.
weasels are underground, waiting.
they want skin.
weasels are little whiny men in grey business suits underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair.
weasels are petty, arrogant, they preen in the mirror, adjust the grey hair in its perfect coiffure.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood.
weasels are hassling the wait staff, to complain this drink has not enough ice or too much ice, or this steak is too rare or this steak is not well done.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle.
weasels are sniffing at blonde ice queens in bars, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone.
weasels are in the court room, on Wall Street, on the televised news, at the head of the operating table, behind the pulpit, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow.
weasels are plotting world domination, underground, waiting.
they want skin; they want hair, they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow; they want gristle.
Weasels are being appointed to the highest government offices in the land;
They want skin; they want hair; they want blood; they want muscle; they want bone; they want marrow; they want gristle; they want ALL
weasels are underground, waiting. (more…)
*The work seen below is part of a manuscript of a conceptual work based on the writing of Thomas De Quincey (Confessions of and English Opium Eater, 1821), and seeks to draw out a new way of looking at this famous piece on addiction writing.
The late Duke of Norfolk used to say, “Next Friday, by the blessing of heaven, I purpose to be drunk;”
too much, as that
as to confess, is
by supposition of laughter committed to debauch
like manner I
used to be called
by the one
seldom heard spoken. For the music
around all around a little, as
for the one
them. In the Opera, I could
“Can’t remember when he was here last. Sure, he’s here sometimes. What’s his name? Ah don’t tell me,” the girl at the sports centre reception looks to the ceiling, shrugs.
He’s here already though. I can feel it. His shiny sports shorts and top radiating fabric conditioner and old sweat. Faded black-grey-navy, always a bit baggy; a saggy cloak of invisibility – the bla-grey-vies. He’d sighed as he walked into the crowded gym. No one heard.
“I know exactly who you mean. Uses the exercise bike nearest the window, always the same one, he’ll wait for it if it’s being used,” she continues.
The marathoner on the runner thumps out a rhythm apart from the rock station radio streaming through the speakers. Lads clank and clatter the weights. The pack of teenage-lycra-girls snigger – wafts of confectionary scent giggling around them. Business as usual, it would seem. (more…)
There is a baby crying. You are not the baby
crying and you aren’t sure it’s actually
a real baby but you are told it’s there,
you are told a family buried their baby in
the baseball field, because a bunch of boys
found a small, misshapen hand at the home base
and it’s too absurd to be real—you are a scientist
that’s what you tell yourself every night. (more…)
After the rush
of our bodies aligned
you told me the true story of the time you found a woman
buried beneath the tree outside your family’s home
you were seven and your tiny shovel
hit what you knew would be treasure
but unearthed the smooth white of skull
with teeth so perfect and even
that you imagined that smile for years (more…)
We all heard him tromping through the tubes. Into our home, the unwanted fool who can only bark out that he’s just doing his job. An unwanted job. A job no one notices but him, his bosses, and us. We are as out of the way as we can be, and we are still too in the way for someone. They would rather us not exist. That’s where we will have to agree to disagree.
Sometimes he looks different. Sometimes he is a woman. Or short. Or apologetic, for all the lack of good that does.
Our home is below the homes of even the homeless. The homeless that are allowed to be seen. Set dressing for the city dwellers. Our home smells putrid, is putrid. But it is our home, and we will not leave it. (more…)
They branded the black letter “C” across his face a couple years ago. He could be more specific and say 4 years, 3 months, and 28 days. He could pinpoint it to hours and minutes if he was so inclined. He could do this because it was his prison sentence. He had become a “C.”
C sat at his usual table at the little outdoor park on the island, overlooking the bay. He had the table to himself as he did almost every day. The tables surrounding him were packed. He ate lunch here every day, but C always sat alone, unbothered. Because he was a C.
The prisons had been full. There was no more funding for feeding or caring for the inmates and so everything had changed. Prisoners were released back to the public. Each was branded. The released prisoner was told of the due date of release and it was incumbent on him or her to appear on that date to have the C removed. Of course, there would be remaining scar tissue. C’d seen a guy who did his time. The guy’s face didn’t look the same. It was sunken and watery-looking like an old ball deflating in a puddle. Some former Cs were judged by it, but C would rather have the scar tissue and freedom than what he had now.
He looked around at the civilians ignoring him. It was still hard getting accustomed to it. (more…)
The sound reverberated all around as Philomena slammed her ghostly knee into the coffin’s red-tinged cover. She occupied the space between her old body & the satin lining of it. Her spectral form had been mostly separated upon her death, but for some reason, the translucent wisp that was her new big toe wouldn’t break free from the old one. She’d been forced to watch as the mortician scooped out her insides, all relatively pink and healthy looking save for her wretched heart. Had witnessed as he tugged the dress her husband, Gerald, picked out for the wake over her shoulders, tearing the back and pinning the seams. He was convinced no one would see that part again anyway. She’d laughed at that, and old Stewart had heard her and been momentarily terrified but convinced himself it was the incinerator and got back to work.