the cling film
It’s a long feeling, possibly thin, walking down a street, the interactions are vague, the focus shot through with a membrane of something, micron thin. Walking towards, but not seeing, glassy eyed and glossed, glossed over, they say. This sheen can be tuned in to, a kind of daily shrink wrap, we never even talk about proximity, doesn’t cross our minds. It leeches out of stuff, squirts through the seam along the bottom of the iPhone, the liquid draining from the glass, a hand holding a foot, body removed. A weeping-wound dressing should be applied when the top surface of the skin has been removed over more than a square centimetre of flesh, the Hyrdrocolliod dressings maintain a moist environment where the bodies own enzymes can help heal, they also prevent the histamine which weeps out from bonding with clothing or other fibres. It looks like a cling film patch, like a pixar top coat. Like the final render of sheen on car bodies, crystal coat, meat-cum-favourable contour. All is bred to dominate. Bodies, a language to be read, a surface on which to write.
Double glazing the TV screen so it is more efficient, relax the boiler over winter, turn the pressure down. The air agitated and angry, rushing skywards as it heats, vibrating invisible mite graveyards, accumulated over time and distributing them like a blanket of invisible proof, that eyes don’t see unless the frame allows it. Writing in bubbles and connecting them up with different coloured biro, like sticks found and collected, left to reveal their real meaning. The surface of all this is like jism, or basic shampoo, left to spread as it wants and form its own sheen. The walls which can be seen are just the ones which excuse themselves through necessity, the glass ones are the real creeps. Shuffle across a palazzo, divided down the middle by gigantic glass sheets, all that is seen is a series of floating vinyl dots in tasteful grey. The ground is puckered, pulled up, snagged, gathered, bunched in a ripple of concern over a forehead made of fantasy cobble. Sandles made of gibbon faces glide across the wrinkles, using the furrowed surface like a skate park. Slime trickles down and reveals the peaks and troughs like rock pools at low tide. Crabs gather in huddles wearing faux roman garb, fashioned out of hallucinated eunuch pelt. Through the green slime the crabs look purple and their Samsungs are spouting nonsense at them about geo-caching for imaginary beasts, so they can be sold the wares of mongrel cats who have set out stalls to look like any of the great souks. A bazaar for direct sale, no speculation just guarantee, algorithms designed for faceless populations which have congealed like blank snot in the eyes of drunken economists who recently ransacked a local fancy dress. One dressed as a Marylin Monroe police officer, squirts silly string at cling film strips held between two posts, the other uses witches fingers enabled for smartphone use, to navigate the silk road and spend his bitcoin on spiders that come flattened between sheets of glass for microscopes. They all shout SALE in the voice of Churchill and eat wrigleys, fashioned from the sinue left over on the carcases of giant sperm which invaded the other side of the glass but not ours.