Bones perched on stools cologne-d in darkest Subaru round the corners of my gummy shell of Heart FM propaganda slush. I am fasted and finished with the hand swipes of constant weeks on end and brown rice long tails hanging from my unbuckled bottom. I’m skiddies all the way home hurtling my mince hips till swamped and itching triptychs.
I carpet over plums with kiwi skin in daily hesitations that drain saliva from my teeth down suckling tubes that also tweeb eyes of pupil fluid so mind and joints are left Judge Doom-rickety-squeaky. (Smiling face) FANX!
Stencilling back on the pink of my blotching erudite udders valves splitter like Nick Cave hair strands leather-shoeing their way through Jubilee Street live it’s all gone Spike Milligan...WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW? Aerobics. Please inlayer the latex of my gut and sequent my silent cardboard-Trumpled screams.
I’m loose from moles in the sediment between bathroom tiles where I rest my crossed arms on my shoulders and make pastry from fermented hard swallows. (I’m too sensitive for Liquorice All Sorts) A Monday evening roast fumes it’s soggy cum airspace and lugs my entwined footbridge spearing through till Tigers dart off and evade.
A warming mug of shallow bath water placates indigestion to a snivel of bowlegged triple X. I wonder always if i can charm myself to sleep after this draw pulling intolerant squid fingered skin sneeze anxiety.
I’m just full of bodies.
James Cornish is a poet and artist. Check out his work here: