Fiction by Tim Frank

Five Fragments

Say farewell in a coffin of law. Reluctance to comply will lead to a wiretap crash, swooping like a dream in a blender.

Trust no one but the shadow of your smoker’s cough.

We cry among the masses crawling like Radiohead music videos. We dance with twins in fields of protein paradise—shoot ball in front of the king and leave a trail of pinpricks along a mountainside of crippled veins.

Look north and find yellow eyes peeled like lemons in movie shows. Reel with the sun and follow streetlight streams—digitised, monetised and frozen with UFOs spewing Shakespeare in football dugouts.

Number nine, number nine, eating acid like steak and chips with a side of fractal moods, loosening your belt so the serpents can lick your rubber skin. Forests sit at the table, wiping lips with moss and tall grass. Devour the swamps and let the rivers bleed.

Sleep is near, just follow the baby’s mousetraps. It needs the bag of bones to beat the drum, and fire the feed. Follow me on busy trains, I’ll leave a note on the tracks by the melting TVs. If we wipe out drunken brawls and robots’ rebellions with manners and philosophy, what on earth will Jesus do?

Tim Frank


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