Chop Chop

Walking the pavement, no, not like that, trying not to wobble in the wrong direction. Thin spectrum divides the parallel universes like a rippling film of silicone jelly. Nobody sees it though. A nanoscopic line of staying fresh, or diving into an unobstacled pool of imagined drunk flies and salivation. That’s what she said, a juxtaposition of sunshine and the unadulterated stench of raw pork.

Meat dripping with blood curdled her knife stabbing stomach pains, great way to start the morning. Each and every morning. A tricolore of subhuman downgrades: senses; body; aura. Clean and serene neroli molested with the sour smell of death and pangs of ill will.

The red stricken flesh hangs woefully from aluminium hooks inside the white metallic cage, stripped to the bare threads of bone and fat, vapourised atoms escape, invading her nostrils, bile instantly lodges in her throat, her lungs and throat convulse and contract with horror. She clutches her stomach, squeezing her appendix attempting to radiate the pain outwards to make it less severely concentrated.

A ghostly chorus of Eat me bellows out in terrorising low chords from Mary’s lamb, Jack’s cow, the Three Little Pigs and Billy Goat Gruff as the hum of the grinder, well, grinds. Holding her breath with an obscene feeling to exhale and expel the foul particles of pink and white freckled skin immediately, she practically forces suffocation, starving her brain of oxygen for 120 seconds as she tightropes the kerb passing the butchers.

ink is free, so...

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