Day Three Hundred and Thirty-One.


Izzy circle


He woke to feel a cold drip falling steadily on his forehead. Right in the centre. Smashing up his chakras. Holding his frontal lobe to ransom, forcing his eyes to blink and his cheeks to wince every time the next blow feel. That, and the smell – acidic and fecund, ripe overflowing like sickly Vermouth. His tie was choking him, but he couldn’t move his hands. He knew they wanted answers but he didn’t understand, so he closed his eyes and wailed, he closed his eyes and cried. He closed his eyes and shut his mouth and asked the darkness why.


Sarah circle


When the hurricane comes
it will be cut-glass and golden

belching life into the dry cracked places
an avalanche of terrible fecundity

the insects will flourish, naturally
fucking and birthing and dying, teeming

the bloated men and women will float on by
with shiny blind joy in their maggoty, bigoted eyes



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