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The Rock Climber Part IV (wip)

Morning, and you dug about loudly in the heavily screwed-up tin-foil pouch, fingering its contents, but still not finding the crusty balls of bread into which you had needled hot jam a few days before. You often tried to recreate doughnuts, didn’t you, you moron. Since they had withdrawn funding for the field it had become increasingly difficult to secure any meaningful support for activities which could not be defined, and you dined out on this for months, enjoying the way it made your mouth feel, each ulcer ticking and clicking, singing like a gathering of barnacles on an exposed rock in the mind of Lewis Carroll. You thought the morning had come to soon, that, like bad bread, the sun had risen too quickly and therefore the day would be close and congealed, undercooked in the centre, hard and crusted at each end and with a not so desirable crumb or flake. You gathered your thoughts and thickly glooped into the day like a wrong onion, bruised and layered. The sheen of the igneous outcrop had conjured a real aroma overnight, of wet slapped fart of cold bisto, the sheen had lustred into a golden grey, goose fat sort of scab and although sufficiently hooked, you wondered if this savoury slime was hindering progress. You schemed to spit wads of tod from your mouth to water down the over thickened gravy. As you heaved your distended abdomen like it was a modernist sculpture trying to breath its first breath, you noticed a small opening in the sandstone around your knee. Not nostril so much as a whole from an old piercing which had once housed a daring spacer disk, removed at the joyous offer of a menial job, stripped of any sheen so as to become grey and unwanted. Your mind poached in a vinegared academia, could not fathom the unexplained stones on the beach, you’d have liked to remove them all and see what was truly the beach underneath, but this noose slinging had to take priority over all other explication projects. You had boiled two eggs this morning, suspended 30 feet in the air and you dropped a drip of boiling water on some foliage below which had scalded a patterned, proto-language into a large leaf. The Milton steriliser tablet which you had used to un-gravy the slick water to boil eggs, gave you a very sudden idea, like a smack on the forehead with an unsliced slab of cold-cut. You remembered that guy who wandered onto a train carriage and shouted; ‘everybody look forward to the Krismus, your cooked meats etc etc?’. Then you slathered more rope oil onto the noose and turned to slinging again.

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