Dare. Dream. Want more. More want. Most expect less. Smile… It’s free. Unlike you. In 2018, there’re those who say “Yah!” unself-consciously. Wipe your arse, oik. Send in a CV. Become the global voice of the pig industry. Snort! Snort! Oink! Oink! Kitchen staff drain the fat from the trough. The stench of entitlement that nauseates permeates their clothes. The restaurant’s inside the giant stomach of a monster called General Kononvich. Sworn to secrecy by the Catholic Crusade, her adoptive parents drink too much. On holiday, they take blurry pictures of holy spirits, beer bottles and lavatories. The tramlines on the bus driver’s face tense as the aeroplane taxies into the trees. Aims. Sub-aims. Personal aims. Anticipate problems. Predict outcomes. Then lie.
Where the fuck’s the runway gone, captain?
Strengthen weaknesses. Threaten opportunities. Never question why. Presume no thirst for enquiry from the quenched. Entrenched in belief in a heaven that’s merely an absence of the hell that parades for earthly paradise. Under a rain of mediocrity, the blue green marvel throbs. A forgotten divinity hacks up gobs of phlegm.
The Gods have no heads to turn.
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| GOD'S SNOT |
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