Food
Hunger doctors prey on the boy’s blood blotted body. He looks transparent and empty from their elevated height. 12 foot, surgical, steel doused bodies pull their animal eyes towards the cowering beast. Pushing food, filling himself, engorging. Spagetthi wriggles and travels along the cold tomatoe blood. Along his deliriously licking tongue. A serpent of infantile oratory pleasure now transformed for digestive servitude. A slithering slave to the mouth. The tang climbs inside his spikey nostrils. His body tranforms into a contorted half-ling. Dementia and sadness dance on his face as his body is cut into all sorts of play dough shapes. Moulding and shaping, they hum and discuss their sweaty surgical existence, whilst the corpse lies placid right beneath their brillo-scraped hands. His hair takes the chopping bounce out of the blades’ bouncing pulse. Wet, his thoughts transpire and take to the air. Humid, sweat crawls out of hiding. Sticky, the gown hugs his tired figure. The boy’s bullet nipple fire outwards, gripping the spectator in its callous rigour. A wireless boy, no signal, the food network all around. Rewired and remodelled he returns from a thought dream, to be submersed in another. Unconscious, the first aesthetic ploughs staples into the stomach, the second, steals his blood with a dyson. The food hides under his lining, desperately seeking escape to the colon. “What has the tubes out of order”, one mush asks another. “Anastetic”, a word returned with a shakey quiver.
owlwink
