Monday, December 20, 2004

door-surround composition in grey and pink

He ate violin cheese

For real

Right in the jaw, in the real wide gape that, it seems, is behind the usual gape

Right now the path through the room was like a channel crossing, ploughing the chairs. He had not known there was a path, and he had not known there was a gaff between the doorjamb and the cooker either, breathing so loud he didn’t hear

And - OK, his nose but (so long as he didn’t touch) it had not been landscaped

There was hair on the wall, not very clean hair. Giving up most baths, that sort of lazy habit, little grace-notes and ease of civilised living, hadn’t mattered with him being alone but now the home and all his secret grime was exposed like in the cold street, the front door flapping, exserted tissues

After weeks of shrieking [he] borrowed a ring spanner and slid on cardboard under the engine. Afterwards the old fan-belt was neat; between every rubber tooth there was a jagged fault and [it] made a pattern like mudcracks that flopped stiffly into the bin. No way. This was different

They were clomping through upstairs rooms, unspeaking. It’s not over, they have to come past again to say goodbye

Hi Woolworths here I work in the Christmas Carols department And his elbows had new croocks

Truth is, he could hardly hear them, he lay in a nest of damping cheese. If a meteor hits tomorrow we all go down; that was how he went on. We’re doing an article on the world’s smelliest cheeses for the Sunday Times magazine. From yonder they said LETS FINISH HIM OFF THE FUCKING CREEP in small caps. He must be a saint to be so torn up and to think of Marmalade now. Marmalade wouldn’t understand, he was lying right over Marmalade’s bowl

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