vapour trail

the others in static (redux)

"I cannot speak it, picking gingerly at static honeycomb. This is licking the television screen switched off, breathing out—heat strings, chemical jars, asphalt beaches. This is a scrap of paper with the secret of everything. This is Mona Lisa's grimace, cold headaches, staring into midnight, trying to conjure a dead rabbit. This is advertisement space. This is meat. It is a wrong, whoreish bell—pale contraception—an engine of colour to wet along your palms. This is a gap tooth wonderland, appendices not correctly attached, ugly math. This is something. This is a feeling. This is not a word. This is only left with a paper aeroplane, bowel cancer, apocryphal, home."

—Ian William L.