Flukes
A cold compress would do it. Could be mist in your eyes, or compressed desire emerging in another form. Could be your eyes in the mist of wishful; leave your eyes _____ for a... and relax. See, they based the mountains and fiddlier parts of the sky on randomly generated charts. Very precise on paper but also sad in real life. There are still some bits to be finished. Stray pixels zoom through like neutrinos. Aporia weeds are being groomed in any obvious gaps and will be monetized/neologized later.
Meanwhile, all those peaks have been bagged. And the peaks that can only be seen from those peaks in turn are being bagged as we speak …
Mark my words and you’ll recognize them when washed distantly ashore well down the line: To look long and hard at the liver and come up smiling – how is that possible? As soon as commerce arrives it will make sense. Like mirror writing. Your liver will scrub up well and liver happily ever after [laughs badly]. But right now there are clouds and mists in there and, to be frank, things aren’t clear in the slightest.
Peakbaggers are labouring through the night to secure the map; liverscrapers have been released into the system to do their work. Still, the infected sheep chuckle deliciously as we fleece them for data. They’re counting themselves down like a puzzle where sleep is deferred and deferred until it becomes meaningless as custard. Happy to go ahead and make that trade. Downstream they collect the watercress in trophic cascades: a calculated risk. We discuss the relative merits of the term aleatory to a soundtrack of our livers crawling.
David Hawkins is a writer, book editor and naturalist from Bristol. Recent work has appeared in Arc Poetry, Blackbox Manifold, Datableed, Interpreter's House, Magma, Molly Bloom, Otoliths and White Review among others. He was awarded second prize in the 2015 UK National Poetry Competition.
