05/10/2013 - SPIN THE CONGRATULATIONS

Spin the congratulations and spin it well. It spurns the cradle from which you crawled out of, makes you retardant to the particulars of the details of the masochism you wrought. Allow yourself to transcend the difficulties and hardships of being a ginger woman and then go as far as to drown your sorrows with soapy water dotted with lime capsules, the kind you find after certain types of hardship. The manticore comes forth with its phalanx to engorge itself on your independence, your sense of independence that overrides the chief undercurrent of livelihood. The whirligig will make itself a fall guy, allow itself to be the perfect fall guy for your manic, leg-breaking situation. The manticore knows where else to feed its dystrophy into, it can use its body like a finely-cut thread on a sweaty summer’s eve. The morn doesn’t really do much of anything when you go down that far.

Don’t fuck with me, good-natured individuals. I have a knife that is as resplendent as the walk through the rockery you make every day. I see you making a mockery out of real human angst by pretending it’s a sniffle on a filing cabinet or just a filing cabinet facing the wrong direction. They’ll bed you and desert you, these office cubicle recreationists, they will smite the analogue clock with porcelain figures of twisted lions and their half-headed tiger pals. You see that? That’s your epiglottis; I made a comical depiction of it using the staplers in here. I did my best to ward off the dark spirits but they ingratiated themselves to the baby and tried their best to meet its needs in ways that you couldn’t possibly imagine. Pregnant divorcees are stuffed in stymied drawers and they’re the ones who’ll actually agree to lift your fish tank while you clean the surface beneath it. You should feel timed out.

As the fragrant dawn becomes a glowing belly of the sartorial worker, we will go down to the docks and shoot the shit with sheets of shacked up music as they dictate the harangued attitudes of their staff wagers. The mission has been launched and is due to lunch at five hundred hours, sometime before the metal on your DVR traipses into lonely sideways bars just off of the coast of your oafish smirk. I am anaesthetised by your mischief grease, ground down by your grindstone of a harp and I won’t let you take my children away. They’re my garden variety decorations, you can’t just swipe them for social causes, I’ll have your guts for garlands. That nudity you feel pressing against the back of your husband that is my discretion losing its hair and gradually turning upward. The mangled door frame is wangling watchmaker jewellery and teasing the misters out of the misses and straight into the kisses. And the beards they have created in mine image! Lo, ego problems! This isn’t going to be an issue for the Greeks nor the Romans either.