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Things you're scared of.









Binmen reading my thrown-away diary pages i wrote when drunk all giggling in unison as bags of their employ all break, introducing garbage to our collective gutter, bones a-clutter, skin removing itself and horrifying as reptilian derm does on sandy, grassless hillsides, a new colour on show to dazzle the lady-snakes, entrails within the puncturable sacks of morass whistling in a line, re-educating us on intestinal length and how much our insides can swallow and accept without revolt or a second-coming.

Mostly i am afraid of the idea of snakes, thanks to my brother who told me that the wispy rattle of crickets in Brighton was the i'm-gonna-eat-you whistle of all asps and cobras when i was about 7 years old and strolling in the hip-high grasses on my way to a tennis course.
I also hate the idea of being seen. Of a failure of mine being on show. Therefore, i stay still or state thoughts on football message boards instead of somewhere that would reply will a score or grade or medal or wooden spoonge.

Beware of the brown acid that's been going around. Repeat, steer clear of the brown acid tabs.
 


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