Pock Bile (excerpt)

Ink stumbles across paper like a slightly watered spider, in fits of spunktuation, immobile limbs and loops. Skin shrinkwrapped, veins visible and pulsing on surface waxy. Crying out for a shiny needle to suck in, to consume, to gobble on its point. Could a junky get through such a small window? An example to the fat and literal masses wobbling down the aisle. The food aisle. Taking the dear little ones up the chocolate aisle. Bellies precede them. Them, the lumpen consumertariat. Dreams sucked off into the mire of Chinese plastic. Sticky slugs of joy, gloop onto pale skin, reddened in harsh sunlight of abroad. Knickers ride mounds, Golgotha. Ride up into the sweaty crevice of a foreboding succulency, painfully gripping the things we are about to buy. Clutching a new desire, a new promise.

More rotten landscapes, piles of processed earth, rock, hillocks of linen. Bleached rags of plastic splutter in the trees lining the tarmac. In the distance clammy mountains reinvent themselves as cancers. Blinding, paralysing hunks of malignant tissue stretching out fine tendrils to throttle lungs, liver and lobes. Frontal. Full. Corporeal alien submarine burrowing into thought and motor competency. Words fall thick and slurred but barely escape the dribbling maw.

The metallic teeth of the Technician scratch at gangrenous arms. Pick at slight finger meat of the victim whilst browsing low res images of the urinal gunk holes of East Yorkshire in the magazine Fecal Seepage. A producer of clothed porn. Wrapped opaquely on the top shelf. In the alleyway next to the newsagents’ feral dogs crap information.