In Your Pocket Sebastian Callum
crawling and staggering in circles since ’36, you don’t see me complaining. Ghosting can be a good thing. In how many ways can you tell a person you don’t like them? The terrace is sinking under the weight of millennial pining. Can’t own property, own each other. Watching the central server – desert-bound – pubescents chucking emojis at one another. My friends turned into rappers or photographers. At the table with the Spaniard. He can’t pronounce his own name and I don’t know your birthday. I was contracted three weeks ago to pretend to be your boyfriend. Shoulder rubs are free. Colouring in a pot plant, Sharpie-Adderall energy.
At the table with Chileans, watching the deck of cards race across the table. There goes diamond – whoop – here comes clubs charging forward – what’s that? – pluck diamond man corre por tu vida. To my left is the sensitive soul. Each time I see her and from each different angle she looks different. God forbids devil smile, no teeth tight grin. Say all you want, she won’t let you kiss her. Disposition and I’m falling off the bed. Previous next reveal subtitle. Messages hanging over your life like strings from the master. She pokes and prods and tells you about the Columbians and the Northern British from a coastal seat. Everything comes to you once you stop wanting it. Play the victim in next week’s theatrical. Out of work with plenty of time. I’ve been
At the table with Tourrette’s. To my right is the beach bum, who doesn’t surf but moved in for the board. Beats swimming, the waters off-bounds. Still update yourself in front of it. Check. Another. JPEG no te reconozco. Tote bag stoned on the promenade, totem charged like Charizard, Trigg soul picnic in golden floaties. Maybe you should just fake it. Hanging over this town like the plump ghost of Elvis. At the party this Summer w/ Size XXL ABCDEFG cups. Her aunty’s ringing and my uncle’s forgetting. Either that or he’s streamlining – text subpage reveal subtitle – hoisting up dementia river. This is a hoax, you sold the rights of your body to Netflix. Meanwhile they found me drunk and mumbling in the Creative Commons. This chair is sinking under the weight of boomer pining: ride it out, pulpy and nasty.
That timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a hungry people: Pel-i-CAN!
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