Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Glass Houses

Behind walls insulated to isolate, the King of the Western World clenches his buttocks to avoid leakage into the perfumed boardroom where they sit to decide how the pie will be carved up. The question is moot since all present know who the eaters will be, and all that remains is to decide who among the eaters will gain control of the crumbs and scraps.
“Which one of you cardboard cunts is gonna give me Timeline Indemnity on this, I don’t care…”
The immense stained-glass window commissioned by the city and executed by the Queen’s favourite artist is shattered by four-and-twenty flying figures into shapes that do not comply with safety regulations; the Jester takes one in the eye and is unable to scream for long milliseconds, a task taken up by his right-hand man but swiftly curtailed as both their throats are slit by scalpel-wielding blackbirds.
“This is a message from the thin men in the street” proclaims another frictionless-black feather-clad figure in a voice filtered through a myriad of satellite-housed software.
The King’s head is removed in a single slash of flashing steel.
Media-bots circle to capture the spectacle in hi-rez-slo-mo-porno-graphic detail as the city’s low bass howl rushes in to drown out the high treble notes of still-falling stained-glass shards.

Tales for an attention deficit world

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