So they said

The second open call.
Sorry its all in Russian.
Its a student project. There no money.
And they all wanted to play my trash symphony.
I congratulate you in this risk taking moment.
For going through this transformation.
I have this huge environmental ready made.
Self critical. Wheres the problematic.
The plan. Lets come back to the plan.
I'll send you some films.
The week after that you'll come to me with your solution.
You must have a solution.
Maybe we can see what your looking at by the reflection of your glasses.

Back teeth

I just looked at my dog.
Does it even know anything.
I wonder what she is thinking about.
Nothing I suppose.

Dogs don't think.
I wonder if they pray.
I've never seen a dog put there paws together or lean forward onto their knees.
What would they need to pray for anyway.
More walks.
A bigger bowl.
They don't have the capability to have ideas.

I saw a different dog, the other dog, eating from their owners hand.
How degrading.
Or stimulating for some perhaps...
It was a blood hound.
It looked past it like most blood hounds do.
Too much skin.
Too much skin for their little body to carry.

I think if I were to get another pet it would be an eagle.
Maybe they could be vegetarian and they could go pick up garlic for me.
Not wild garlic just from the shop you know.

Devil Baby

She looked down at its squirming face, nose pinched to its lips.
A grimace that she knew would soon erupt into an almighty shriek.

Pushing it around all day.
Its heavy.
Its fat legs kicking the edges of its pram; its oval cocoon.

It screams, it screams.

Spittle forming in the corner of its mouth, gurgling its own unformed profanities.
Slipping into a maniacal cackle, lapsing into a hysterical moment of pleasure, enjoying the slow torture of its creator, only to momentarily return to the screams.

“Why are you shouting?!” The inquisition was futile.

It gargles.
It cannot express itself.
Its plastic pacifier repositioned by the mother only to be spat out again in retaliation.

I bought it shoes, but it screams.
Oh, it screams.
It screams, screams.
Screams that ring through the street painting it purple, green and red.
A passer-by recoils into the fur of their hood.

The child is turning red.
The child is turning red.
It starts arching its back.
Boiling.
The baby’s fury is boiling its own organs.
The baby is churning its own brain into a gory butter.

“What do you want?”

Blending its own emotions.
An unsettled pile of hokum.
Its eyes rolling back into its skull, clenching its tiny fists.
Gurgling.
Struggling, to move past its present state.
Its lost.
Flailing arms exacerbating its body
Burying it deeper in its torment.
Its empty mind filling with heat.

The fat rises to the top, a silky layer of oily grease.
The particles separate.
Where is the glue?
Can it be fixed?
It screams.
It screams.

The kettle has boiled.