it was one of those tuesday mornings where the weight of the day bore down preternaturally beforeupon waking, where the grimness of the forthcoming billowed up, slack and wet round ankles like so much gas filled frog spawn, where the bilious puffs of traffic spew and jagged ragged ribbon of other conversations flighted face-wards with the unrestrained glee of mnemonic glassings. fog brained mumblemouths spouting unreconstructed adverbs down waxy canals numbing my brainerry and tightening my scrotal sac with unwarranted oh-pin-yon. blood roils and eyeballs mist with the unlife of living.
some days are made for blanket cocooning and invitro tea and ignorance of existence outwith the almost six feet of skin bone and fluids encasing this victorian flowerpress of nerves and neurons and neuroses. the thick sausage fingered grip of fear tightens tie-like around neck collar and the slick eager tongue of heroin or words or the hot void of waking sleep worms wetly sexual under dermis, mewling soft things to moi. crooked limbed slack lipped eyes tight blind with undesired orgasm, wrung bullyingly from dishrag of me. i want to want this, to not want wanting.
then.
the brief flare of struck match, the glinty glint of light at the end of an unbearably grey crunch of concrete tunnel. fuck yr black & red oxford paper pads and badly stewed fair-trade filter coffee. fuck yr synergy and charters and objectives. fuck yr key communications and coding guidance.
i am the manicorn.
behold the luxuriantly liquid folds of my mane, my glistening leg musculature, the hard shiny twists of my ivory horn. fall kneesward and suckle at my musical equine teats. i am the joy and illumination of spasming popnoise.
the perfect antidote to the postposthangover midmidweek blues. like fuzzy zappa-esque inanities schmeared across roy orbisons grinning face. like fifties teen ballads spoojed out by the no-no-no fidelity times new vikings and ariel pinks. like garage rock squelched through psyche pop synthomaphones. all of this nonsenserry perfectly exemplified by the exemplary perfect renee which frankly approaches something near perfection.
i fucking dig this like dig dug digs digging tunnels.
