In the shade, in the cold, a grey pastry, a
sallow dough. A giant lump of some ý/&%/
substance.

Wallowing in an over-sized glass jar. Quivering,
gurgling. Reminding of muddy aspic. It looks so
/)&/ý%. It makes me feel so ?)#/&?=`*,

Like a giant mite about to burst after gorging
ichor. Taking *ý&()?*ý#%& shapes. Stretching
flabby limbs. Worming out of the jar

towards the yellow light.

Excreting a trail of milky pus through the
surface rendering.

Outgrowths form in no time, falling off. Tongues
emerging from the orifices. Froth and drool
drying up as all crumbles away. The pus

smouldering and steaming off.

Looking is not seeing is not understanding is not
believing is not agreeing. It looks so *%#ý()=.
It swells, it grows, it expands. I

think it will #ý/$L@(?.

Waiting is not longing is not hurting is not
bleeding in a world trapped in a world trapped in
a world. The dough's gurgle ceasing

with the yellow rays scorching it. It's throwing
a crust, which cracks and unpeels, reminding of
flocks of mangy dogs running downhill.

The two of us can't coexist.