Tits on it

It was dawn. Quiet. They had put up posters everywhere. Something about a ‘magnificent’ mystery. The poster had tits on it, obviously. That was only a hook, or so it said. This group, some Plato spin-off run by a used car salesman, they were coming to town with their pamphlets, tents and way to ‘maximise your potential’.
“Bunkum”, some bloke said on the evening news. I thought that was rather antiquated. I reckoned that he’d been wanting to use that word f
his entire life and he wasn’t about to lose his opportunity. I hated him.
At the cafe this morning, I laboured over my egg whites, rye toast and acai juice. An old man was reading a paper. He sighed, placed the rag upon the table and left.
I snatched the paper as the door tinkled shut.
There was an advert for the something. It had tits on it. Some group or another promised to ‘give you the life you always dreamed about’. Below the ad, someone had scribbled “the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes LOL!”
I farted.
And left.


Don’t Say I Don’t Love You

Ah yonks, beings of littleness and weather reports and glittery, pink boots. I will not be stopped by the insults in the street, reports on self-destruction or any other bloody rubbish. Tweak the robot gland and save the rainforest. Must you smoke? Atom bomb logic; a thousand fiery fists punching the faces of every man, woman and child. No signatures, no crumpled notes, no entertainment. A huge, ornate bottle of whiskey. Smears upon the carpet. Interest in politics. No mountains. Join together at the foundation of the mountain. Ah, my Untitled 1. Like a monkey. A fountain of sludge; scraped from the fallopian tubes of the diseased city, hermit like, criss crossed and forgotten by clumsy clerks with cheap pencils. No. We can’t help you. Give me a cigarette, I’ll give you money? And the slack-jawed, fashionista lying in pools of their own liquified brains. Crotch splashed with blood. The scream of the arrow, the poison frog. End your dinner now, you are eating your own flesh. The waiter has two, small rings of snot in each nostril which he snorts back into his head. His trouser pocket shuffles. He has only one hand. We laughed and laughed. The poor sod was buried today. Cloudburst. Shellac triumph over red-nosed brioche handed clumsiness. And the bastard hoofed off his clompers and demanded beer. He smelled like cooked meat and stale water. Head through the tent. Saint who? Hot head. Flat bread. Bed.