26 Feb 2008

Mutton gusset souffle, senor. Limp through the cloisters, up the stair-lift and past endless choirs of copulating hyenas. O Romania! Lift me onboard the egg-wagon one last time, then quickly fry spittle in the broken yoke afterbirth of shoes.

Before you came back from Egypt I coughed reams of consumptive algebra; all leave was cancelled. Petri-dish skyline over sunken Alabama backstreets: tramps hoist up their trousers; the waitresses revolt. Moon-pocket lepers assemble a miniature collage of shrunken tumours. Mussolini, mon amour.

Drag a lobster-pot behind your car, my tricky little polka-dot lesion. Fifteen frightened children and a piano made of bread.

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