Try on the milk, let the air fry, let it stir around the teenagers and the barfing galloping igloos, they cost too much but are okay as slaves, they are quiet and don’t resent anyone too much. They, like the other patches of lawn on the television and trees, have fur in their organs and in their spirit, it clogs their speech and makes it hard for them to shout back, so they whisper and no one gives them any mouth, any lip, or any other body part for that matter. It is devastating but it is what they want, a trial by fire, a living death, and a final frontier to the lesser ideas.

The horror swells up in your eyes, in the pinks of your fingers, whenever that child walks by. He loves you and wants to squeeze the mold out of you, but you don’t seem to let him. It’s just a joke, but really he means no harm. Why would anyone bring a daisy to a funeral, or a cupcake to an ant farm? They like feeding the outer beasts in you, and leaving the inner beasts to swerve and clash with themselves. It is a bit of an anger issue, revenge on the world, something to take like medicine or a sick child to the amphitheatre. Swallow a planet and it will run your system, get with the limelight and the light of the lime, it stings and it should divert from the rest of the other posers.

Live it, lick it, rush it and throw it back to the later realm, where you will go tomorrow and drown it in your roughened tears, the black things in the corner of your eyes that scare you like they do, amorphous shapes twisting and turning, they talk to one another but are released at different hours, it will never be a serious threat.

The lesson in the old shoe, the one by the side of the road, he must know a lot but he gets awfully disturbed, he drives a Cadillac so you know he knows a lot. The nurse told me not to worry about him, but he yelps like a dog when he looks at me or the ceiling, or the hole in the wall to the playground outside, he loves the kids. Maybe he ought not play with the kids, he may be dangerous. A seeker of souls of sorts. It’s possible, but even the brethren of lacking light need their love.

Compare the light to the dark and the skin to the bone, it is all relentless banter when you come down to the necessity of it all. Try a veteran in a canister, he will bark and complain until you tend to what he wants, his desires, things like that. They are really just greedy, not worthy. But the oxen do have lovely singing voices, you should hear. It’s like a bomb that explodes daisy pedals, or an atom with a spinning axis, spinning and spinning until it drills a hole to the core of the earth, blowing it to smithereens.

A bubbling cesspool of swear words, boiling to the top, overflowing and trickling down your lips, through your grated teeth, and landing fire and ice between the pores of your skin. A furious outbreak of disease and outrage,combing the waving typhoons of your ruffled hair, brushing past cleanliness and swimming upstream to the golden trophy of success, a burning smell, it is unpleasant to bear, to look at makes your eyes water and any normal man’s feet itch with powder stains.