This is not my call but perhaps I’ll unstick and tumble and fall in an elegant ball and bounce to the bin barely clearing silver rim or flip top split gaps, cuddle neatly in skin, appealing first thin, a thing smelling of old fish bits and pasta sauce, curdled milk clogged and sloppy bottom layers of muck, rank, gunk, track – raining ice cubes on yoghurt creating blasting pitter patter on bin base, but outside echos spaceships crashing into planets – which then bagged is tied and carried and darkened and dropped and rolled and lifted and polled and sorted and crushed and degraded and thrushed and thong steps closer and find that special bit that could then provide a slightly warmer night trip but really it smells and I belong soaring through air rattling and humming and spreading the ick (cigar in hand, notice lately I’ve been dying?) and my friends are all probably thriving, future hiding, but I, for now, am beginning to unstick.

– Scott Sandwich


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