Depression
Depression is a slow SUV with plush sofa cushions strapped to the windshield. Depression feeds off crowds at the fight by the river, cheering lesser dreams. It’s a low-slung fleet of clouds, looming by the shore. The cure is national flags, speared into the veins.
Airplanes
My eyes are failing me. I can only see airplanes now—flashing among the shadows, spilling neon in the mirror. There are planes in the hall, skipping like rolling stones. There’s a plane in the garden, swamped by the weeds, slick from torrential rain. I step on board—breathe in and out, and seal my eyes with tape. They’re no use to me anymore. I’m gliding to the sun.
After the Flood
E-liquid swamps my feet, blocks the drains, drowns the streets, and floods the cars floating past like helium balloons. The juice blurs the skyline as the sun sets into wounds. At least I can swim in a sea of lemon sherbet, then vape among the stars.
A Great Advert
In essence, there’s only one advert that can placate the masses. It’s by the surfers, slicing through the whitecaps like rotten pomegranates. It’s a thirty second trance, with a Magritte bowler hat, floating over roadkill.
