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Gravity Always Wins June 26, 2015

Posted by The Typist in Moloch, The Narrative, The Pointless, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Fuck you tomatoes, miraculously irregular Renatza’s 4800s, each as soft and meaty as a breast.

Fuck you summery cucumbers. Fuck you broccoli florets.

Fuck you crisp lettuce, blessed with the sweat of the pickers like blood of a Mexican Jesus.

Fuck you, too, lovely artichoke hearts gleaming slick with olive oil.

Fuck you mushrooms, you glorious flowers of cyclical immortality.

Popeyes, that’s it: dark and spicy, the crisp skin all slicked up and sliding off as if god meant you to eat it that way, like pulling apart Oreos.

Hemoglobin diabetic markers equals fuck it, a biscuit.

Fuck it.

The clock ticks. Nothing happens.

Waiting.

The end of the week hasn’t started yet, the little bits still sliding through the wires into place at 2/3C, the Speed of Copper, waiting to be arrayed into fields and screens, checked off one against the other, work for monkeys.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Suck the fingers clean enough for a cigarette.

Fuck you, vape.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

ESTRAGON:
But I can’t go on like this !

VLADIMIR:
Would you like a radish?

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

What is the glycemic index rating of fingernails?

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

If there is not enough nourishment in coffee and cigarettes, I won’t have to worry if they’ll have an iron lung in my size.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting…

VLADIMIR:
This is becoming really insignificant.

THE TYPIST:
That’s what I think.

Comments»

1. Daedalus Lex - June 28, 2015

Well said! (I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or sink into a brooding melancholy.)

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2. The Typist - June 28, 2015

We’re going for a Brooding Melancholy that would frighten the fuck out of Thomas Hardy, and send the Bronte sisters to the fainting couch.

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