There, in the pus-filled recess left by the heaviest whip, you might find yourself suddenly giggling. And see a cruise ship puffing along. The smoke that billows from the phallic chimneys draws pictures of cervical mouths in the sky. Spit drips off the railing. A crippled man pisses into the plumbing. A child wails unceasingly, for it has lost its spleen in the booze bucket. But oh do I board the ship, oh do I board it. Beware of this ship–beware!–for nobody wants to return once their own electrical storm has started to mate with the greater one, the infinite one. The skull opens up, and every last embryo meanders out from within, spitting and quacking, their knickers around their ankles, all shrivelled up and wildened by a thousand rotted spasms of grief, and yet, alive.
Each half-formed thought, broken until its steaming bones reach beyond the layers of flesh, calling for dear old pappy’s veiny shithole, each thought of that ilk, entertained only until the laundry room is close to deadlocked and the salmon steak becomes indistinguishable from your best friend’s ashes, each thought of this ilk hurling itselfover the granite spare tires of the ship like spurts of vomit from a dying calf, hollering and emitting arias of distilled, pathological bliss as they clamber across the chewed-up skyline of the city, the toasting marketing professors in the hovering bar suspect that someone might have spiked their mojitos with wormwood,the intestine makes itself felt, the symptoms, the symptoms, did we accidentally eat gluten, but no, it’s you, it’s your own humanity that blemishes their fields of vision, you have to exhale it all over them, your mango puree-stained humanity, each and every individual with a Swarovski-adorned snout