Cruel objects exist very suddenly. As though the Gods of Primordial Rock had—as plan-all- along—a perpetual stream of intermittent oh shits, their continuous Love of Gothic Surprise manifested in petty and profound inconveniences popping up here and there, from under just-formed magma, lying in wait for humanity all our days long.

My friend and I find a feeling poking its insect feet out of an egg, an emerging we had warded off with sprays, juju, management bibles, chrysalis suppression regimes, mad positive thinking; now wanly unsuccessful, we must plot to kill.

Where do the private stings of having to exterminate emotion lie, on the spectrum that spans from  minor annoyance to openmouthed tragedy—a blistering thing pretending to be small, a groanworthy glowing aborted in its tracks, a foetus of love two people who grimace at bearing it to full-fledged birth try to push in its womb down the stairs? We want napalm dropped on a hidden thing threatening beauty. Where to obtain roachkill for a firefly lit in the atria?

I know things exist in their cruelty very suddenly, and also a truth more acidic: around every child and grown, confused endeavour of a human is all of the spite in the world, just waiting—every eye could make its want known to you, and in the same breath, a dagger. All clouds in the end are here for rain. Skies open wide to fry our epidermis with the sun. Each gamble at a touch is a reach for liberty, also spilled milk.

I know laughter and laughter and suddenly a mad thing that slaps both clowns in the face.

I know hands that touch each other with held breath and stop, hold breath and stop, while with others’ bodies they strangle round fearless. No terror like the weird meeting of palms as future prey, future holders of solid kills.

I know going and keeping and leaving be, I know belonging as a bitter-tongued priest who is jealous of freedom, seen it vice versa round the corner, seen how strange words no one will say go coagulate gummy in the mouths of all involved, because killing is a part of the average weekend, strangling wants in their sleep a basic function of the working week.

I know coffee is what we down with sugar and pretending, I know ache like a dream all the mean kids make fun of and spill their juicebox rivers on before recess, no big deal, there’s the bell, swallow whole.

I know what he can’t want like he does and what I refuse to ever need.

I know crows are called a murder because in their blood is a flying, a weapon for losing, a kind of hurt manifest as protection,

A gone.