25/07/2013 - YARN PLAYS

            Yarn plays in accordance with marketing poles. Yarn burns to the credited touch, to the dream-come-reality, to the real estate of seven hundred million. The witches made the yarn boundless and engorged in its own stammering stamen. The witches gathered about their cauldrons to issue fines to the living and still gather to this day though mostly to aggravate skin irritation for political figureheads. These haggard hags believe in stability and municipal dial tones that must be heard purely out of a sense of protocol and accepted nuisance. Culture is not actually a big part of the yarn, it is a snagged loose thread in the shape of several snares. Decades of scientific stomping and a wide range of spectacle have tried to make heads or tails of the yarn but it ululates in its own selfish, laughable way.

            This is the new romance: a boy and a girl at the foot of a chipmunk's bed. The bed is indeed oversized and creaky and the couple are not aware of the clock ticking obscenely in the background. They are waiting to be overcome by furry malnourishment, desiring the short and quick slash across the lower portions of their united stomach. They are thrashing their patience with tonight's retribution, they are feeling the chipmunk's teeth sink into their respective neck muscle. They have cockle shells. They won't call the police because they have their cockle shells. They refuse to call home because they have their cockle shells. It'll make matters significantly more minty fresh and perhaps a little stilted in places.

            The importance of seeing the prostitute in the girl is becoming paramount to the training course in Left-Hand Roaming Aptitude. She does not wear street clothes nor does she give money back for the right moment but she is undeniably a prostitute. Cogito ergo sum only with more mascara. Meanwhile the boy is a reliable biter, a toothy dictator-in-training who is momentarily inhibited by his wish to see the prostitute naked against her rules. The acne is the one remaining blockade between truth and fantasy here. The love is not love, it is a charged beam of good feeling that's blown in two directions because of two hands at the hilt. Their timid wash is coming to an end and soon they'll have to revert to their ugly mastery of social norms. The chipmunk will conveniently forget the vows they spread and return to reading about the history of the witches' yarn. The yarn binds all things except the prostitute and her biter, that passion comes from hellish territory.

            The chipmunk wraps itself in plaintive sheets and thumbs the 100th page corner. It carefully folds its bottom lip beneath its teeth and runs a claw along their margin to tear the yellowing paper. The chipmunk is an extract reader, has a short attention span but an intelligent sense of history. It has paid its dues and now just wants to hide between the pillows and forget about all the hand holding.