Tree, Shipwreck, Funeral Pyre
Wreck wreck a TREE
real fun, rype
Prick prick a wreck
Wreak lush (BONES)
Pish, peck a prick
Shup, lick a werk
Ew, shur- real.
‘Wreck a deck of leaves!’ thou to the great snatchcatcher who lives on the bottom floor catching all the tiny people in the great green jaws. Snack cashing in on the deep fog. Disaster time! Relief! The snatchcatcher a monstress. The pulse a holy ache in his tits and armpits, the feeling of the crush, presume to prick. Territory the snatchcatcher was born to be, the borders of its gorgeous body broken, shit licking out seeking fruit the clocks going faster and faster the snatchcatcher breaking its own borders. This is body party. Tanks. Its mother wails the cruelty of calling it a green scary monster. She writes the letter from her prison cell the night before the raindrops plish plash plosh on the sill, the dirty sorcerer. But she must want to frighten them away. The snatchcatcher whips round head on its shoulder wreaking a lush smell of bones and absolutely going to pounce and the brittle little prick is too late with his sword bounces off in a spiral bounces twice comical fast boing boing and is dead the second time. That’s as when bones fall from a great height they just become little bags of leftover chicken wings on which the dog to choke. Let’s accept no less than eloquence from the commentator of the end of time, the green monster no moor an advertisement for sweetcorn but the princely wifeling of the green world, made of the grunge (green gunge) that mostly anything will turn into if it’s in a cartoon and if you leave it there for long enough. Points to the problem rather doesn’t it?
‘Shup lick a werk’ the great snatchcatcher to thou. Thou hast taught thy autocorrect my name. Job here done in a way really satisfied. The darkness came when snatchcatcher rold a stone afront the cave. Inside there are the bones and shrivelled trees that dissymbolise each other. Snatchcatcher makes literal our metaphors and stuffs the tree tops into the chambers of its ribs to make beautiful lungs. ‘Ew, shur-real’ he yikes as he chats with friends, shoves on a white tshit and gurns. These are the quiet days we haven’t let get to us yet, this is where we already are. The snatchcatcher’s flock is lichen to a herd of sheep but so much the more are they woolly. We are standing rock still in the ribs of the cave. In the classical analogue we all remember to tie ourselves to the belly of the sheep stealing bat out of hell at the first whiff of morning grass as it rises to worship the bare feet of the day. Real fun, rype as death.
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