SLUSH



The world as an onion. The world as a set of centipede legs. The world as a divan or something else.


The world as a slime mould, oozing through a scientist's maze. Those flat, plain walls. The world as doctrine or firelight. Or as charcoaled marks on a burnished rock. Or an open mouth.


The world as a ruby or striations on the surface of a bone, taken as evidence of primeval cannibalism (all of us shivering in some fucking cave, myself really going to town on your lips, your calves, your femoral artery). The world as a sapphire. The world as an egg. A dark and rain-lashed forest in late morning. That slime mould from earlier, privately constructing a unique and terrifying moral philosophy. Bodies collapsing en masse. A single sustained note on a trumpet, somewhere. Organic fibres, knotted and dried.


The world as the taste of cinnamon. Or a swamp, just some old swamp. Ants swarming from the nest. Stringy vegetable matter dried in sheets about something incredibly gone. The solid fact of the ocean, holding secretly your handful of ash. I mean a pile of it, I mean. The world as a handshake or a star. Or as another star fusing heavy elements inside itself, doing this for no-one, waiting to blow.


An autonomous factory in a simple landscape. An objectless symbol and an unsymbolised object. Things missing each other in the dark. The world as pointillism.


The world as a shutter. The world as an inward-falling. Thank you, thank you. The world as a ball of cat hair, a strand of the same noticed between your new lover's upper front teeth, the cat's food bowl suspiciously untouched, the television meanwhile parping away in the corner, blazing an image of the world as an oversaturated globe and some electric approximation to darkness.