Jissom

Hark now hear, the angels sing.
Heavy eyelids sweating in the musty darkness of a cold may evening. Some old woman on the TV belting out an aimless tune whilst music swirls and dances in the background.

Close up. Faces looking enraptured. We are free to be free. Except on TV's repetitive bland cycle of filtered excrement. News. Stern looking reporters outside Westminster - Who is going to be the next in charge? Who cares? The illusion transfigures to reality and tiredness takes over.
It sits heavily like sweetened insence while disembodied seagulls laugh from some distant pier.

The drag queen cow girl in the pink frills prays to the lord Jesus while singing about ticking her box and Capitalism. We dance and line dance in the tent until the faces fade. W. in Thailand with a sperm donor while A. sits in the community garden playing piano to commemorate the Holocaust. Beer and cookies paint the night awash with colour while the cat holds out his paw, pointing.

A t-shirted evening looking up at the candles and listening to the waves that lap and clap while digeridoo music hangs in the air. He bends over and gets fucked by army boy, who then turns into a skeleton in an oil drenched Iraqui battlefield. Stray cats, driven wild by rabies, lap up blood, brain and jissom while raising their paws and dancing around in the midday sunshine. A violet sun sets over a yellow field in a green sky.

G sits on the end of the phone talking to ghosts in the bright winter sunshine. N sits watching TV in a faraway room under the sea. Black airplanes explode over an ashy sky, ejaculating sticky white rain over the cornfields.

The old woman laughs from behind her fading photograph in a drawer in a cum-stained bedroom. The woman in the veil sits on the pebbled beach watching seagulls circling in a stark blue sky which doesn't exist. Black cocks crow while a disgraced priest dances with an old gypsy over hot coals.