I am bland. I am brand. I am mud. Asbestos in my fillings. Balsamic in my blood. Jamie Oliver paellas in front of dancing on ice blinking burning baby starlings from the corners of our eyes. And the man from human resources? He looked pretty pleased as he relayed the results from the biopsy of my dreams. And she's snuffling up the bedbugs while I sweat though the sheets at night. Re-totting the glans those lips shivered over before she became my wife and it's the concrete cancer that's teething and breathing. You know what I say, darling – better to no end than nothing at all. That's why you'll see me smiling while I'm putting my head through the walls. Bury me in a bakelite bath. Ziplocked polystyrene organs in a polyester bag and I'm a young man, an old man, a sick man, a soul. A milk tooth, a molar, an abscess, a hole. Now I'm nought-point-one bacteria doing laps of the toilet seat. My jowls let out a shiver with every pothole in the street. Do you look at your body and think it's no wonder that you're going nowhere, friend? Nope – not with that withered flagellum that's spinning between your legs. It's counting your friends that makes you lonely. We're dying too fast but oh-too-slowly. The concrete cancer is teething and breathing. You know what I say, darling – better to no end than nothing at all. That's why you'll see me smiling while I'm putting my head through the walls.
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