# 959: television networks

answer me of the pigeons in trafalgar square. tourists flock to see them on a yearly ratio that outnumbers the birds. each time one humps its grey jumbo into a gutter a camera goes flash. but they're only pigeons. voyeuristic feeding leads to shitting in endless cycles & its poisoned emulsion is eating the benches, consuming the architecture. the real tourist attractions. rats with wings/harbingers of disease. they have rights to live & should live. but they're only pigeons.

the dumpties of the five embryos. candles ready lit, only one the real child. the unwilling father neither consenting or lost but unforgiving in the owning. to her they are the green bottles of her only chances hanging precariously on fertility's broken wall. she will teach mother earth to suck eggs if it kills her. the pop soap jury are out demanding a speech: adopt! adopt!

the pill in the aqua that kills the nerve-worm forever. one man solipsistic slalom throught the straights of switzerland. to arrive at the place, the very white place. walls cushioned, clean, not quite bright enough to ignite the will to live. a monet, so blue. & her, the harlequin who holds the glass at the bedside (part-time, 26 hours, full benefits incl. 17 annual paid days plus bank holidays) cannot proffer. that would be murder. her kind burdened face the last you'll see. tea breaks float through a cumulus explosion of semi-skimmed & then back to the day's flat bronze. rose cheeks perennials. glass bleached.

time recorded: 4:17