Mumble mumble. Side-saddle on a lint wildebeest in underbrush, celeriac jam of dentist-numbed mind-traffic. Work morning trickling out a variation on spring, plucking the clotted daisies from between toes. Comes like a one-size-fits-all, non-optional bargain-basement pedicure, synthetic swabs of clothes.Comes with advice scribbled sidelong on damp leaflets in the bathroom:Nibble the rubber bullet, dodge the glockenspiel mallet.An albino ravenousness in the belt-trough trenches.Tupperware tuna salads food-poison nuclear marmot families.Each fantasy of the ideal crouton went soggy. On the psychopathychecklist, a middling fibrous number that is humbling to crunch with Wheaties. Midweek dentists splint split teeth with cat hair and glue distilled from the jigs of grasshoppers.Any given Wednesday, a breakfast table chock-a-block with full-grown victims of wave-pool trauma; their hamsters are swimming in bowls of homo milk.Oh gosh. The lengths of white icing, front-crawled.Those fur-covered, sound-wicking walls lowering over the week’s tiny ears like a helmet.
