Egg. Feel the stickiness. Hanging like snot from my fingers. Bright yellow snot. I rub it into my hair, massage, gently coat each strand with the foul smelling mixture, my hands slipping, egg-webs in my fingers. What now? Leave it on for twenty minutes. So I wash my hands and seat myself on the pot, take up my book and read.
This is a new book. All about spirituality and being and not being. The cover is the same colour as my egg, bright yellow. I borrowed from a friend of mine today- she's a big sucker for this sort of thing. Always talking about salvation and shit like that. Me? I'm just bored. Got nothing better to do you see.
Contd. later.
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1 comments:
I like your work, but this is my favorite so far. It's funny too, because the poem of mine on which you commented had eggs in it.
But this one is so matter-of-fact. I love the prosaic language.
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