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232 words
Build a Baby by Shireen Khatri
Build a Baby–Flesh Labs inc. Ink? No. The milky way, up, always up and beyond the beyond in holey light. Pinpricked perfection is okay for once, if they did it. Do it. Is being done. Has been. Will be. Forever is a fickle word. Life breathes life and who exhaled first? Adam’s ribs and For Dust You Are all very well in open tomorrows, inching toc-toc in silent square, but squares are loudest and always squares, except sideways are diamonds but hate that. Don’t tell them. Flat things with edges were built to maim. Phoenix of the world rooted in dusty glory, nouveau carboniferism in concrete and ash. Cinderella knew better. Choking is a choking hazard. Paper world, card houses and bits of coin jingle jangle, repetition endless, till death do us part. Do it? Systemic oppression of sweet nothings into trauma fodder in stylings of that pretty white girl and that angsty young boy who refuses to rhyme. Beat Nick, they said, and did in sacrilegious red-stained frenzy, synchronised sips sounding round the globe in Black Beauty, chemical caramel and who needs Sugar? Endless doctrines and Sucking On Tailpipes for quick-fix , and Quickfix to fix quick memories, someone else’s maybe. 8 billion in diamond-studded delusion. And then Wednesday. And then Thursday. And then again. And again and again and again and agai—Buy a car today! Or beer. Whatever. Okay!