Apercu of Death and Biscuits genus

One day it will all fade away

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, January 30, 2008 - 23:57:10 - print it raw

Then they will come around and ask for the hand that falls far from the tree. With no wrinkles nor blemishes. Only bones, webbing and the stark claw of dirt and a life of grime underneath the screaming dialect that exists a sliver of truth along the fingernails.

Scratching at the post, peeling back edges looking for that copper lining. Green and rust and the build up of mistrust as the walls and foundations crumble all around exposing the inner workings. Grand scales to rival the smallest and most insignificant.

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Have a seat and watch it burn

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, January 16, 2008 - 23:51:14 - print it raw

Middle of the morning, as the sun sits on the edge of the horizon and pulls out a long drawl. Whispering and waiting for the break into the start of a brand new day. Over the line and sitting pretty, aglow with the burning sensation after a night of many chilli seeds between the gums and through the teeth. Cold and hot at the same time, it's a veritable swag of temperate zones coursing up and down. Only beads to show for the path that breaks.

Consequences of fare. All up for the down time, an explosion in expulsion. Emergency evacuations outlining a ring of fire with legs and backsides finding the shortest path toward agony. Gurneys lie far beyond the reach and expanse of this plain plain.

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Crashing holiday road toll numbers under body count of 2007

Ethan Switch - Monday, January 7, 2008 - 23:36:23 - print it raw

Sweep away the rotting flowers and kick over the 46 body bags steaming in the summer sun. Slow turn out on the bloody roads over the Christmas and New Years' holiday period. Down a considerable notch from the stellar piling effort of the 63 dead in 2007.

Out and eager to stake the heads up on the race to carve up the stakes, Victoria with the first claim of the road toll season. Note the impressive jump start which in the end left the state on the move well into a first place finishing. Three shy of a score at 17. One up from the previous outing. But not every one is a happy camper, police saying, "Victoria's road toll not good enough."

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Chills and petty band-aids on a bed of ashes

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, January 2, 2008 - 20:18:34 - print it raw

On a leaf beneath the cut upper lip, a legless ant rolls off and onto the ashes. Alone and with nowhere else to go, screaming in delicate undertones. Antennae flail wildly about, grasping at straws, catching none. Any kind purchase hard to buy with more than the most paltry of puns in its purse. Sadly in the other pocket. Sadder still in the pants with legs inside. No legs, no pants, no surface to cling to.

Cold winds bracket the face, skipping warmth for heat by friction. Red, white and blue, the colours of the flagging. Ready for the next round, to wake up the next day and find the corpse and meals previous one and the same. Sickening with nothing but raw tasting plates free of condiments. Salt? Pepper? Rather.

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Food and cavities tear at the seams

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 26, 2007 - 21:02:12 - print it raw

Only enough holes in the mouth to carry little pools of water. Not much to port from the dry riverbed. Still, without such a high dose to lap up, there's not much to spill. Watching out for spillage means wasting time on other things. Things such as feeding on food already gone. On sweating and leaving chalk lines of salt. And of lying in the open where crickets find their way inside other holes best not housing crickets. Or cicadas. Or any other bugs and insect truth be told.

No water. No food. Not anything.

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Painted dolls for all the cows

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 19, 2007 - 22:12:38 - print it raw

Drifting off sleep, careful of the surrounds. Keeping eye on nearby objects, obstacles and other things. Falling away into the magical land of unconsciousness. Not so bad when with the right twist of rug burning and neck rubbing. On a plain of barren dirt, the luxury unfound. No plantation wears more naked grass than the desert wannabe.

Man eating cows are not sexist. They discriminate not between the three genders on the buffet. Each limb is as tasty as the next. So long as no leprosy or scabies touch their meals, it's all good. No judgements, no dealings. No fair warnings either in waking up their next platter of bones, meat and hair.

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