T is for tabloid and all the time in the world, of infinite delight. The Queen is resplendent in her distension, the next iteration. The Queen’s abdomen seconds, 30,000 eggs per diem. Workers continuously feed her, climbing the tower to refresh the fungus garden, child worker or soldier and rarely: industry. This is life centrifuged to terminal chamber of public scrutiny, serve |
a tulle twist of time wound round the pole the tuning fork in the tenor of time, her slick abdomen the color of tea, pulsing is an open medium, ejecting every few with their heavy misshapen heads from chamber to light and threat so that she may eat as she excretes each a new Boy King. This is pleasure as velocity: consume, fuck in the royal your servant babies. |