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When The Music Stops

 

I’m cut up

 

I’m cut up like a collage. My head’s where my knee should be. At least the mouth is. My nose is fixed like a cap to my neck. There’s a saxophone instead of my left foot. And Elon Musk’s space ship is where my heart should be. Should be, that’s if the whole thing wasn’t a moving trainset going over a series of cups and jigsaw blades set amongst a 17th century rainforest, with the Indigenous trading with aliens for a concert hall in place of what? Did I say it was an artwork racist at its heart? It belonged to Herman Goering who modified it with a team of concentration camp child slaves. But you know it’s hot amongst the Monaco set and is projected onto some IMAX-like cinema screen as background entertainment for old billionaires, while they are fed from the bellies of beauty queens sourced by a former president of some country you’ve never heard of but probably declared war on through your giraffe-headed-rainbow-footed popularly elected leadership bottoms, who carry shopping bags for a 5-sided Kandinsky rubics cube toasted cheese sandwich in a panda onesie. It’s on my wall. Projected back out at me through my bathroom mirror when the music stops and I brush my pearly whites.

 

By Malachi Doyle 2021.

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