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By Dan Hogan
That's you in bokeh, hands leaking over a rail. It’s coldest in high
definition, loudest in standard. Trumpet like a mop along linoleum
before it’s too late (in 4K). Ice-cream didn’t do this. Ice-cream never
does anything. Stumble on the buff tree root lifting a segment
of the pavement. (Count this collision as a reminder.) You know
who wins in the end. And yet you point at nothing out the bus
window and call it the summoning of wordless knowledge. Sent from
my iPhone. Deliberately blurred portals for eyes. It’s happening
again. The nature strip caked in hard rubbish. Heap after heap
grafted on. Waking to the sound of a disembodied whisper. Why
does this always happen despite already being in possession
of a selection of the most essential things? Do you cover yourself
in a blanket or counterpane? Personally, my watch has stopped.
Back in my day trophies came from playing our parents in franchise
films based on the complete tea. Step outside (eyes shut). Gather
that for which you’re known (flavoured milk?). Just think
how good it will be when you get to the end (of your contract).
Take each day as it comes (disgusting).
That’s you in bokeh, eyelids thick as chunks of fish bait. Earphones
dangling from your head. Wondering what future moment might
see you say something like ‘more like hurry up and wait’ and laugh
and laugh and how we laughed. Accidentally sustain a lifelong injury
via eating popcorn in the darkest of subcellars. Wreck kin in service
of the ruling class but know it only as an illness. Dig a hole for the
wind chimes. Personally, I turn my back on any reflection contained
within the glass casing of the shower. Moss grows on this painting. The
frame is rotten. The hook is bent. Take that happy phlegm out of your
mouth. Fling it into the sink and wash your hands. Reject modernity
and embrace traditional meta-modernity. Just kidding. Peel a mandarin,
pocket the skin. Time to walk back to the car no matter how much
our legs burn.