Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Dancers, clowns and scorpions march around your coffin. The demon fetuses incubate their own demon fetus and all we want is to live to tell about it. The commander squints hard with his one good eye while he tries to understand what Carl is talking about. "Electrons in our salads and tachyons in our pasta, weaving carbs in and around time...". The clowns forge terrible shadows and we live in fear of our own personal circus.
Ink on maternity mannequin