Welcome to the future. Your Largo Ergoform TX is the total primo fusion of comfort, affordability and posture-paedic support.
It’s loaded with controls. As demonstrated in the attached diagram, it has controls for raising and lowering the seat, altering the pitch of the seat, locking and unlocking the tilt of the back support, increasing or decreasing the resistance of the back support when unlocked, altering the seat depth and raising and lowering the arm rests.
There is a squishy pump for putting air into the in-built lumbar support, there are wheels and the armrests even come off if you need them to. But best of all, the chair itself is shaped just like an ass.
Shaped like an ass Shaped like an ass The Largo Ergoform TX is Shaped like an ass
Try it out. Try it now. Sink down into that warm milky oblivion. Mmm-good. See? Hey I think it likes you!
We know that no two customers are exactly the same, so pay attention to the controls. So many controls! You’ll probably need your kids to explain them to you – ha ha!
Or we could send one of our representatives to custom-fit the chair to your contours. We’re happy to provide this service free to all of our clients. Very happy actually.
Hmmmm, just talking about your contours makes us want to sell you a chair. Better take a second to cool off!! Just kidding. (No we’re not.) We put a lot of thought into crafting our chairs with your specific contours in mind. It’s our gift to you, and hubby doesn’t have to know.
Just imagine sinking into an Ergoform at the start of a long day. Imagine how the day would fly past – you’d barely notice you were working. Imagine a line of Ergoform TX chairs rolling down the street, with a great big Ergoform Executive rolling in the lead… just like a bunch of schoolkids following Teacher on a field trip! Hey, or what if a whole bunch of them were performing on stage, like Las Vegas showgirls - crazy!! … That is actually crazy.
All Largo Ergoform TX chairs come with a free three year service guarantee. Some conditions apply. Visit our website to learn more about or range of posture-paedic products, or just to say “hi”.
Five men break out of a mental hospital in Kowloon. They are insane, in the way that people in films are often insane, i.e. they want to kill people. You, me. Everybody.
It is Chinese New Year.
The five insane men find their first victims in a warehouse– a group of parade performers, preparing to dress up as a Chinese dragon. The victims’ corpses are hidden in barrels. Blood trickling out from the bottom of the barrels. A dead eye staring out from a knot-hole.
Chilling music. The five insane men are now collectively wearing the dragon costume. It is green, with fierce leering eyes and a wide toothy mouth that snaps open and shut.
Out on the street, the celebrations are now in full swing. Clanging cymbals, exploding fireworks. Happy families. The green dragon, comprised of five insane men, has blended seamlessly in with the parade.
The dragon’s fierce eyes swivel. The jaw snaps. Happy, frightened children step into its path, then run away yelling. Parents laugh.
In the midst of the throng, the dragon strikes – chomp.
And again – chomp, chomp, chomp!!
Confusion. Panic. Disorientating ambiguity – is this part of the show?
Police on the scene try to make sense of the massacre (the dragon has escaped along a dark side alley). The five insane men had a psychiatrist, and he is running to the police, delirious – these men are crazed. There is nothing left in their minds that could be called human. They will strike again. They will stop at nothing. Etc.
The parade is over. Many people are cowering in their high-rise apartments. But the unlucky few have not heard the news, and are wandering home, alone in the deserted streets.
Take for instance this teenage girl, who has recently engaged in sexual intercourse. Unsure whether she has done the right thing with her boyfriend (a prominent sportsmen at their high school) she now hurries back to her waiting parents. But sounds seem pursue her – a rubbish bin over-turned. Footsteps. The jingling of bells.
Unseen, some metres behind her, a giant green head is watching her with fierce eyes from around a street corner.
Sensing something, she looks back. Nothing. But as she walks on:
Jingle, jingle, jingle.
She turns again. This time she spots it, lurking in the shadows beneath a tree. HOLY SHIT! She runs, but now the dragon has broken cover. It’s pursuing her, teeth chomping, accompanied by the inexplicable ruckus of clashing cymbals!!!
Three people here. Gathered around, facing me. & at least one (the older guy) is psychologically abnormal. Wide eyed. Half-smiling. Not reacting to anything. Just smiling. Very unsettling. Especially with the time distortion. He’s like a doll. Like the figurine back in Reception. Then there’s this guy. Their leader/manager. Priest, maybe. Name’s Barry. He’s smiling too. Being friendly. Talking a lot. Says: there’s been a misunderstanding. I know the guy you mean. The one you met. His name’s Shannon. Affiliated with the Church. Sympathetic to the cause, etc. But not one of us. Church keeps minimal staff. Not currently recruiting for new members. Not that sort of Church. Evangelical vs post-evangelical. Blah blah blah. I let him talk. Check the older guy. Just sitting there, half smiling. And the other guy. The first one. From reception. Acting like everything’s fine. Except he’s worried about something. Me, probably.
Tell Barry: OK, stop now. I understand. Explain the device. There is no device, he says. All a misunderstanding. Say: don’t jerk me around Barry. We both know there’s a device. First guy’s up on his feet. That’s enough. The office is closed. Think you better go. & Barry’s going ha ha. Trying to smooth things over. Think what Doug means is we’re keen to get home. Dinner etc. Tell them: yes. Said that before. Noticed that when I came in. Your office is closed. & so is the recruitment agency. So is the web design company. Whole floor is closed. Empty. Only people here are you. & me.
Let them chew that over for a second. Think back to my lunch break. Decide to bullshit them.
Tell them: I don’t work for the Catholics. But that could change. Catholics don’t know about you. But that could change. Lot of things could change. Way of the world. Constant state of entropy, etc. For instance: I don’t intend to hurt you. & you are not in danger. Not right now. But that could change.
Quick read of the room. Doug’s the weak link. Take a step towards him. He’s trembling. Say to him: Me & the Catholics. Not exactly simpatico. But you guys. Don’t know anything about you. Don’t know your agenda. Don’t know if you’re dangerous. To me. To my interests. To FEDIAR. (See what I did there.)
Barry says: wait. Let’s relax, I’ll get you a coffee. Let’s talk this one over. Goes over to the kitchenette. Slowly, in slow time. Starts making coffee. Asks: how do you take it. Tell him: doesn’t matter. Make it however you want. I’m not drinking it. Barry nods. Stops what he’s doing. Walks back. Sits on the edge of a desk. Arms crossed. Pauses for a minute.
Then: OK. You’ve got it wrong. It’s not a device. Nothing like that. Ask him: so what is it. Nothing man-made, he says. A resonator. Massive resonant object. Is it big enough to save the world - don’t know. Could be. Worth a try.
Older guy says: Barry. He doesn’t know.
First time the guy’s spoken. Weird voice. Like a clarinet. Says: he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. He saw the picture in Reception. Read “FEDIAR”. He’s guessing. Barry says: who are you.
Who am I, I say. Good question. Life keeps moving & changing. Question like that becomes hard to answer.
Three offices on this floor. Recruitment agency. Web design company. & Church of Resonant Consciousness.
Walk over. Time is moving very slow here. Every movement distinct. Conscious. Taking place in the present.
Door's ajar. Reception area. Unattended. Very much like an office. Shelves, files, paperwork. Wall planners. Voices in the next room. Calm, pragmatic: Commit to deliver by Monday. Reception desk has a security monitor. B/w image of lift lobby. Little figurine beside the computer. One of those art models. Wooden body, hinged joints No face. Voice next door says: If he gives you trouble, let me know. & I'll sort him out. Always used to frighten me. When I was a kid, I mean. These wooden figurines. Look around the waiting area. A couch. Magazines. Not religious ones. Just regular magazines. But this is interesting: Framed print on the wall. A geometric pattern. Concentric circles, transections. & a word in the centre: FEDIAR.
Voice says: He can say what he likes. But the contract was for Monday. End of story.
Think: What is it with religious people. Always playing around with geometry. Mathematics, diagrams. Reminds me of HR. Executive management, etc. Harmony, harmonisation. Always with the diagrams, code words. Reaching for something intangible. Enlightenment. Improved, integrated systems. You can't point to it. Can't touch it. Get worried that maybe it doesn't exist. So out come the fucking diagrams. Circles and boxes and lines. Like you know what you're talking about. Here: harmony. Here: seven key principles. Mutual respect, customer focus. Here: seven chakras. Twelve stations of the cross. & over here, FEDIAR. Whatever that's supposed to mean.
– Wait a minute. Damn it. Damn it. Check my pockets. Jacket, slacks. Hands and fabric shifting through slow-motion time. Damn it. Yeah. Left my phone at the office.
Voice says: Excuse me. I turn. Middle aged man in the doorway. Excuse me can I help you. I say: Maybe. Who's in charge here. The office is closed, he says. What do you want. Tell him: I want to talk to whoever's in charge. Spoke to one of your representatives. Earlier today. Guy in the street. Said you have a magic device that's going to save the world. Man says nothing. Just stands there. Motionless in slowed-down time. Staring at me.
I'm used to people staring at me. When people stare at me, I stare back.
Tell him: I'm here to see the device. Pull your thumb out. Go get whoever's in charge.
(she is holding a DVD box set. it is the second season of True Blood)
You want to talk to Mum about your bad day?
OK. Just a sec.
(she leaves. he drinks the rest of the Ribena. rain falls into the garden outside.)
(she returns, now wearing horn rimmed glasses, a blue bathrobe and hair curlers)
Aww here’s my Rojie.
Awww here. Have a hug. Tell Mum about your bad day.
It was okay.
(she pulls a pack of cigarettes out from the robe and lights one)
Did you feel the earthquake this morning?
Felt like a big one. It was early, at like 10 or something. The sky got dark and the whole building shook. You didn’t feel it? At first I thought it was like a bomb or a missile or something… plane crash.
My Rojie. Worried about plane crashes. You’re my nervous little guy.
Yeah – but then it was weird, because afterwards I kept finding all this dust in my office, like white powder or something. It was getting into my shoes and everything. And then fucking Korea was –
Sorry Mum. Sorry. It’s that guy, he’s like… he had me on the edge of a panic attack all day. They’re doing performance reviews this month and he’s just walking around the office all morning staring at people’s work stations, doing spot checks. Who was in, who wasn’t in. He’s going to lay off half my team, I know it. You should have seen him, he was stalking around like some kind of primal hunter. And then he’s coming up to me and asking if I believe there’s a God – what are you supposed to say to that!? Like what, you’re going to fire me because I don’t… shit, could he do that? I don’t even know what religion he is, so I can’t lie. Fuck’s sake I can’t even work out what ethnicity he is!! Sorry Mum. I shouldn’t swear, I know. I’m just really worked up.
There there. I don’t like this man very much.
He doesn’t blink. Not very often anyway.
I don’t like anyone who’s mean to my little Rojie.
And he’s calling me all day, I mean what are you supposed to do? And oh God I haven’t told you -- he gets Janet to come in, all like “you have to go see Korea right now”, like “RIGHT NOW” and I go there and his office is empty. It’s just me and… he has all these little statues, like Easter Island things. And then I hear this thump, it’s like a horror movie or something, and really slowly he comes up from underneath his desk and stares at me. HE WAS HIDING THERE. Under his desk. And we have this… I don’t know what you’d call it, “conversation” isn’t really the word. He’s going on about Star Trek and man’s mission to the universe or some shit – sorry – and I’m standing there thinking “what have I done”, you know? “What have I done, why is this happening to me?” Just like “I’m going to get fired now” or “maybe he’s going to bite me to death”, and I don’t know why it’s happening, and all I can pay attention to is that my hands are in my pockets and they’re full of this white powder shit, and he’s not blinking, he doesn’t even blink once, I couldn’t take it, I thought I was going to puke, I actually had to go to the toilet and stand there for like three minutes because I thought I was going to puke…
My brave little boy.
…and y-yuh… yuh…
(gulping for breath)
You just let it out.
That’s right. Let all that tension out. Deep breaths. You’re so brave.
(a long pause)
Huh. Hnnh. -- You shouldn’t smoke Mum.
(a long pause)
But he didn’t fire you.
And they’re not going to. You’re too special for them to fire you.
My brave little man. You had a bad nasty horrible Wednesday but you made it didn’t you?
And you have your pretty girlfriend coming over and she’s going to watch True Blood with you. You like that show, don’t you?
That’s right. It’s your favourite show, and you’re going to have ice cream and everything’s going to be all right.
Yeah. -- Thanks Mum.
Tsk. I love my little man.
(she kisses him on the cheek, then smiles and walks out of the room)
(a moment passes. he has regained his composure)
…fucking Star Trek… I mean, what the fuck...?
(he picks the DVD box up off the kitchen counter. turns it over. reads the back)
It gets worse. The restless feeling. 4. 4:30. Like I’m waiting for something. Anticipation.
I know this feeling. Get it sometimes. Never a good sign. (Never good to ignore it) Just have to prepare myself. What for? Who knows. Ride the lift. Out through the car park. - Nod to someone - Reach into my jacket. Check the pistol. Reposition it for easier access. Walk loose. Regulate my breathing. Relax, relax. Tension in the arms and shoulders. Think of something peaceful: Air conditioning. Dead leaves on a cement walk. Old photographs. Easter Island. Relax, relax.
Feels like they’re everywhere today. Same old guy, out on the Quay. Blah blah, end of the world. Ask for forgiveness. You, and you, and you. Then further on, at the lights: Car with a bumper sticker. One of those fish symbols. Makes me uncomfortable. Fish and doves and rainbows. Too many symbols. How many do you need? For the one religion, I mean. Like a conspiracy. “Honk if you love Jesus”. At least the old guy’s being straight. Ranting, etc. These people with their bumper stickers. Religious extremists. But they’re keeping quiet about it. Driving around. Signalling to each other. I don’t like it. Never mind. Dead leaves. Eskimos. Easter Island.
The place is on Dixon Street. An office building. Right there, listed in the lobby. 5th floor. Church of Resonant Consciousness. Weird place for a church. Check my watch. Quarter past five. With any luck they’ll be closed. Lift doors open. Office people piling out. Step inside. Press 5. Waiting. Relax.
It's happened again – glittering dark insomnia hanging in the bedroom air. Insomnia Nn thom nee yah Nth omni ahh. It's a tantalising energy. It makes my thoughts and senses feel desperately precious at night and then it deadens the hours of the following day. It's like leading a secret life. I sit at my desk, dishevelled and strange, and perform bland actions to fulfil my work obligations. An automaton with rumpled clothes and a bad haircut. In the late afternoon I step out into the warm orange sunlight with vague plans for the evening. I exercise. It's what I'm good at. I do an elliptical trainer for twenty minutes, then run on a treadmill for half an hour. I lever the muscles of my upper body against various weights, then go home and cook red meat and eat it. There are people in the flat. Flatmates and visitors. Loud and silly friends. A villain who leans against the doorframes and watches us, hating us. There are girls – the White Queen and the Black Queen – both so pretty it's maddening. They stand apart from each other like pillars in a tarot card. Like some kind of doorway.
A warm pulse has started up. A great hungry volition. Volition for god knows what, I don't know, I can't make head or tail of it. It's there, waiting for me to do something. I have no idea how to appease it. Every film I watch is a searing lesson in life as it should be lived. People walk through tall grass, touch, kiss, and the hairs on my arms prickle up at the sight of it. People crash into each other, bite and punch each other. They sweat and shout and make loud promises. They get injured, and they heal. It's wonderful. I feel like I'm waiting for the right moment, when the moment comes I'll lunge up into the screen and join the commotion. The streets are teeming with women. I watch them go by, their motion, the colours of their clothes. The pitch and articulation of their voices as they talk into their iPhones. I look up and see the men also watching. Their faces are calm and proud and despondent and contorted with anger, slack from drink, clean shaven and bristly, red and sunburnt, feral, lips curled in disdain, mouths hanging open with laughter. The volition is watching and waiting. Something immense is going to happen. Art and life will switch places and we'll all be cast into some big, dangerous story.
Drinking. Winding down. Checking the clock. I've been so tired these days, I should really get an early night. I've joined a DVD rental club, I have a couple of films I could watch in bed. Our resident villain stares as I walk to my room. “All right?” he asks. “Yeah, fine.” Why the question? What does he want? He probably doesn't know. Probably he's stuck hanging like the rest of us. Hanging off his door frame. For the tenth night in a row I cue the film (Tenebre), but once again it's a trap. Too tired and wired to do anything but lay back in bed and check out the shimmering darkness and the quiet roar of my tinnitus. To wait as the black air starts unfolding into hundreds of ideas and suggestions. Insomnia. Bolts from the void. I love this place, this thing, and the thoughts it gives me. I love it so much that I've often imagined it as a person. A woman with black, black skin and round white eyes. Long fingers. Teeth. A white summer dress dirty with sweat and dust. She's out in the warm-and-cool night, standing by an unlit road, and the busted-up sign beside her says:
This banner has propped up the bottom of my blog page for almost a year now. Trusty old banner.
Putting it here for posterity. Still think it's cool - all with the Strindberg and the pretty ladies getting sprayed with blood. (sniff) You had a good run, boy. A year is a good run, for a blog banner.
Mr Benjamin Korea's short sentences, existential ponderings and ambiguous mental condition will resume shortly.
Not getting much done today. Just sitting here, staring. Rain on the window.
It bothers me. Can’t say why. “Harmony”. Associations with: Church. Youth group. Star Trek. No crime, no money system. Everyone living peacefully. Clean futuristic corridors, gardens. Geodesic domes. Red jumpsuits. Fit and healthy. Sunshine. Acoustic guitars. Sandals. Beards. Cartoon pictures of doves. People saying: peace be with you. Peace be with you, brother. Brotherhood of man. No crazy people. No drunks, drug addicts. Everyone helping out. No-one asking for money. It bothers me. Can’t say why.
Problems with the ioniser today. Keeps switching itself off. Annoying.
Call Roger. No answer. Call Roger’s PA. Turns out Roger’s in his office. Just not answering. Tell the PA: send him over. Waiting. Waiting. & the ioniser shuts off. This damn thing. Climb under the desk to check the plug. The cable, etc. Seems fine. Climb back up. Roger’s here. Seems startled. Frightened, even. Asks: what’s going on. Sit down, I tell him. The guy is so nervous. Got to loosen him up. How about this weather, I say. Point outside. Raining, I mean. Says: yeah. Yeah, I say.
Enough small talk. Ask him: what do you think about harmony. Doesn’t answer. I repeat the question. He coughs. Mumbles something. Looks at the floor. Starts talking about strategic alignment. Listening to stakeholders. Good for PR. Good for the business. Listening to staff. Good for productivity. Reduced turnover. Blah blah blah. Tell him: stop. I’m not talking office business. I’m talking life business. The human race, it’s purpose. Religious harmony. Spiritual harmony. Star Trek, etc. What does he think. No answer. Just shrugs. Say to him: asking you as a spiritual person. Do you feel that a state of peace & harmony is something we should be aiming for or do you feel that conflict/competition – even desperation – is necessary to keep us human. & if the latter then what is in your opinion the true & ultimate goal of the human race. Silence. Waiting. Then: why are you asking me this. Interesting, I say. Maybe I’m asking you. Maybe the question is asking us. Right? Silence. Then: Mr Korea I have a client coming in. Waiting at Reception. Have to go now.
Bottom of my computer screen. Little tabs for the applications. One of them reads: “Procedures for Organ…”. ? Hover the cursor over it. Full text reads: “Procedures for Organising Interdivisional Transfer”.
Today is Wednesday. Pumpkin soup. I leave it open to cool. Thinking: procedures. Anatomical organs. Church organs. Think about Scott Walker for a while. Wonder if he’s religious. A strange man. Could be. The music got weird in the 80s. The Parents are religious. Not religious, myself. At least I don’t think about it. Not really. Not often. “Opiate of the people”. Etc. Maybe I could call the Parents tonight.
The park is pretty empty. Raining. Rain falling in the soup.
Wait. There’s one. By the corner. Other side of the street. Stopping people. Talking to them (trying to). Some kind of leaflet. Definitely religious. You can tell from the hair. The clothes. I pay attention. Watch, listen. Too far away. Okay then. Up. Walk over to him.
Young guy. Says that today is beautiful. The rain isn’t important. Money isn’t important. A great revelation is coming. Etc. What revelation, I ask. Says something about harmony. People always fighting. Competing. Destroying the planet. Not for much longer. I’m examining his face. The eyes out of focus. Blood rushing to his face. Seems happy though. You haven’t answered the question, I say. Tell me about the revelation. Again: harmony. Doesn’t matter if you don’t believe, he says. His Church is going to change the world anyway Church of Resonant Consciousness. Talks about the founders. Then something about the Pope. Secret technologies. Some Catholic conspiracy. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Church of Resonant Consciousness. They have a magic device or something. Harmonise the world. Save it, etc.
On and on like this. I check my watch. I have to leave, I tell him. But I’m interested in this. Want to see the magic device. He’s shaking his head. You don’t understand, I tell him. I have a lot of money. I want to help. But first I want to see the device. Head shaking. You can’t, he says. Listen: I have a lot of money. I will give it to you. It doesn’t matter, he says. Going to happen anyway. You’re a damn idiot, I say. Why are you even out here. Give me a leaflet. Guy says: out here to warn us. The world will be saved. But whatever. The leaflet has an address on it. Don’t need to keep talking to this bozo.
I walk back to the office. Left the soup back on the bench. Forget it. Not hungry anymore. The Pope, magic devices. What a damn idiot.
"PAY ATTENTION TO RELIGIOUS PEOPLE" Staring at the kinetic sculpture. Chewing it over.
Mid-morning I walk the office. Hi Mr Korea. Yes Mr Korea. Sorry Mr Korea am I in your way. These poor guys. In and out of their cubicles. They're scared of me. (There's a rumour about me. That I carry a gun to work. It's true.) Coffee cup in my hand. Think: Who's religious here. Damned if I know. Maybe some of the girls in the typing pool.
A lot of empty desks. What the hell. Some kind of flu maybe. Gotta check that up with Roger. Screen savers. Cartoons on the walls. Little figurines. This one desk has a figure on it: Little guy in a leather apron. Covered in blood. Holding a chainsaw. Little bucket of heads set down beside him. Honestly sometimes I'm mystified. People. You know?
Photo of a beach. Twilight, the ocean. Caption reads: "Don't tell God how big your problems are. "Tell your problems how big your God is." Check the name plate. Desk belongs to Glenda. Think I know the one. Funny looking. Quote on the photo is unattributed. I write it down. Corner Roger in a meeting room. Ask him about absenteeism. Targets, etc. Ask him if he's religious. Turns out he's not. He's spiritual, he says.
Think: strange. Usually the instructions go somewhere. Good like that. This one's going nowhere. "Spiritual". What's that supposed to mean.
I wake up. Blink. What the hell was that? Some kind of dream. I can barely remember it. Weird though.
Take a breath. Try to play it back. No. It’s gone.
Looking up at the ceiling. Well. That’s that. Cold this morning. Feet on the floor. Get up. Stretch. Walk across the room. Open the case. Take out the next envelope.
Couple years back I took some leave. Four weeks. Didn’t feel like it. They said I had to. I thought: what the hell. May as well try drugs. LSD, mescaline, ketamine. That sort of thing. Tried amphetamines. Three nights into that one, got restless. Had an idea. Decided to write these things. Instructions. Wrote them down on pieces of card. 2000+. Kept writing until I ran out of ideas. Then: Put them in envelopes. Individually dated. (Later I bought a case for it all. A display case. Antique, with a glass lid. Like for jewellery. Filed away in there.) One for each day. The idea is: I open them when I wake up. Read the instruction. Follow it.
There's about 1500 left now. Little bit nervous about the last one. Think it reads: "KILL YOURSELF" But can't remember 100%.
Anyway. Today is 23 June. 2010. Card says: "PAY ATTENTION TO RELIGIOUS PEOPLE" Think: okay. Not so hard this time.
That’s another rejection letter, from an NZ literary journal (one of the Sleep Dep items – here).
I'm thinking that context might be an issue. This site works OK as a home for these little bastards, whereas a magazine or journal… well I can understand they’d seem out of place. The longer stories have the same problem. Not straight (or well-written) enough for a lit journal, not genre enough for a horror magazine. Hmm.
Has anyone out there come across a journal/website/rich pervert that might be interested in this shit? Let me know.
Meanwhile the blog IS alive, there WILL be posts, you HAVE been warned. Coming soon: Benji Korea roadsign woman & INCREDIBLE weight loss tips that REALLY WORK!!
Whun Ah goethda gym tuh liff mah weith, theyth aw be wuggin at Fwankie. Theyth be within theyth gob theyselb uh bih ath thnake. Buh nah, they dohn. An Ah be pummin they weith an mah bithepth be aw pumm up, an Fwankie be feewin ih. Eeh be lih “oo Cwith you be so pumm up Ahth gunna hathda wetht mah coilth a libbl.” Yuh. Un dennah goethda thop an Ah gess mythel uh Lucothade. An ah be all pumm up an be wearun them t-thir ain gob no thleebes. Un they wimmen they be lih “oo Cwith hooth yuh fwen” un Ah thays “Fwankie” an theyth all be wanninda paddim. Yuh. I gotha hull buntha wimmen be waninda tuth mah thnake.
Ahth juth wunna thek wetha any youth awtho gob youthew a bih ath thnake. Weeth thtah ourthel uh cwub mebbe. “Thnake Cwub”. Weeth geb ourthel thpethal t-thir an aw goethda gym togetha. Liff weith.
Ink spilled on a black sheet spread out across dark earth rumpled by an empty wind creased, oozing out onto black rose buds, opening like ebony fans the mouths of caves yawning, stretched black muscles opaque saliva dark breath flutters against banners black petals cast across the dark earth wet wallpaper black-on-black twisted wallpaper pattern of thorns, like bared teeth lean through the gaps into empty night snagging at your throat and wrists blinking, blind at roiling dark clouds a low silence churning out a storm of nothing nothing sweet fuck all black, black, black I just want to sleep please