INTERVOID
Metal scrappage from our Intervoid will be sorted, according to reliable sources. The chant of the weed, nasal angels, all the normalised sound tracks will keep you on message. Crump went the golden lights of old Baghdad. Keep staring down the telly.
The Void tried to get into my cot, it put its metal angular head over to say hallo, my darlings. The angels and maggots are line-dancing across my screen. I’m pluralized by the bursting stars. It’s dark inside the radio.
The statement said they desired men of iron. I felt trapped on the wrong astral plane, barred from the consummation areas for a half-life. The others, brighter young things, chortled with entitlement, but I forgave the girl in the pirate hat.
A green-backed angel with scalloped tin wings crawls into a stone. Its priests who smelled of old soap smelled danger and the terrifying simplifications of old age. The slang of love was verboten. Her every cleft would be botoxed by now.
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