culture of the sick



Perhaps it was the heat. A day of unrelenting warmth. Or the food was off. But whatever it happened to be the outcome was the cat sicked up.

Say it. I cannot say it for you. Letters, burning flames. Initials floating on the water’s surface. Signifying elements that might constitute some kind of bond. A relationship that exists within an empty space, the ether. The manifestation vibrates, shimmers with an energy, is as violent and turbulent as it is tranquil and calm. You write and write again. Scattered sheets of paper carpet the floor and decorate walls. Read and re read. You bare your soul to make an affirmation. You will gladly eat each sheet adorned with scribbled impassioned lines in the hope that what you regurgitate or shit out has a greater semblance of articulate language than cobbled lines of flaccid and immature poetry. Say it. Say it now. If you lie then you deny. If you swallow all the words and can’t think of anymore I’ll stick my fingers into your mouth and make you sick up. I’ll feed you laxative and let your bowels excrete the truth. How sordid the lengths and depths we trawl to realise the existence and nature of feeling. We punish ourselves over what is obvious. Say it. I cannot say it for you. Burning letters, flames. Shapes in a landscape. These cruel bindings of torment. No more nocturnal wandering on this pestilent plain. Affirmation of a relationship between. Them. Who are we.

She hadn’t realised the cat had vomited. If she had she would have cleaned up and worried about the creature. One of her children had covered it with an old Pyrex soup bowl. An incubator. It was two days later she discovered the curious culture growing on the garden decking.


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