Aperçus of Death and Biscuits

Painted dolls for all the cows

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 19 December, 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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Step aside to where the sun beams and moon burns

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 29 August, 2007 - 23:25:21 - print it raw

Scratching the surface of sharp rocks for comfort and that raw feeling that follows the application of salt on open wounds.

Salt in this case from the other side of the face, the sweat and the tears that burn in the afternoon sun. Where the realisation comes thick and fast, unlike the hairs on the back of the neck. Constantly in use, abuse, misuse. Looking for a chance to become another slice of refuse.

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Humming sound with a sense of coldness

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 22 August, 2007 - 21:07:52 - print it raw

Where the cold things sit, the people at the ends of the loud shouting sticks gather and throw the metal tins at each other's heads. Watching from the edges of the compound and the edges of their thrones, they drink, they eat and they loom over the prospects. Afternoon for the morning and the cold hum of attacks line up frozen spices and hot sugary sweets.

Meals at the ready with trays and divisions and settings neatly away from the back of the room. Resting long in the warm, sweat trickles onto the food, served on plastic warped from time in the oven. Condiments and sweets beat nothing clear when the single drop adds the spark that sings the lyrics of inner flavour.

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Death can't leave from her trap

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 27 June, 2007 - 18:12:11 - print it raw

Brittle bones snap at the slightest tweak, a drain of blood and the weak is where all the flavours reside. They consume the most, and as a result, should only expect for their necks to open up first in line. And what lines they do present to represent, only for the interests of the swollen numbs to clamp down.

Down, down, down, there by the water's foamy rabid excess. Carving up a quickness that incorporates a slow beat and a rhythm which lies in nations of the folding few. And of those folding few, minute scales of fish scratching at the sides. Tuna comes in all places and in many sizes. Here it happens to grow on branches underwater. Branches made of the gills and sacs of fish looking for a better life than the chunder to which they are accustom.

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Earn a dollar, make some money, don't go to work

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 30 May, 2007 - 22:25:49 - print it raw

Relatively speaking of course. And it's all relative when there are particles in the air, lingering between the first and the last. Pace out a quick turn of events and watch on as the stocks devalue themselves with the enthusiasm of a collective unknowns, skinny from the fear of waking up another day looming dark with nothing more than the despair and shadow of death.

Payment is made in full and there are no more chances for refunds. Once in, all in and the pot collects with no discrimination or hesitation. There are others starving in the world and it only takes an empty mouth, laden with sand and crab grass to undo all the good work.

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Folks drunk as poets all sound the same

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, 2 May, 2007 - 23:58:28 - print it raw

With a mouth full of angst and a head full of maggots, they drink plenty as the rivers dry up. Bearing too much in the way of the fallen, flow constricts and washes through the fermentation of expiration and resignation.

Run all they like, the end of the line comes somewhere in the middle of the marathon for a few every now and then. And it's a vengeful force not of any nature known which constantly fluctuates the definition. From one point to another one day, another point entirely for the next. There is no race guide to follow when the track itself grows and moves with each passing wind.

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