VERY FEW KILLER WHALES HUNT LIKE THIS

 

“Make it magical”, for God’s sake!

Blood iodine reconfigure the rolled stone. It walks and talks. Free to squander everything from sheer lyrical delivery. Rub ointments over national grief light the litmus paper. Inspired by terrible muses’ dream talk so the day begins.

Hovering while drones wander about filming. What unimaginable reality could we inhabit somewhere else? Talking over diversions we slide laterally into bandit country. Sweating up the gravelled veldt; hoping the tyres will hold out. 

It’s all talk of course unless it’s making money talk. Scratch the track of the owl bedridden tourniquets bloom upon new build efficiency. The hotels are fully booked. The grip tightens on the leash, dogs lurch at you every time you pass; suspicious and aggressive. Like the police at the roadblock, don’t run anybody over the say, benevolent gun fingers' twitching. Distracted without an alibi in the act of accumulating; these are the dividends of language, on this the dullest day. They say the corgis will miss her the most