23 April 2013
WHY call this a crush? I guess it sounds quaint enough, the puppy lovey ― moods of youth ― naïve nothings. Nothing heavy or lasting here, so move along. The only blood is blush: unpainted- on. THERE are pens ― called crush-pens ― for cattle and sheep, which narrow like a funnel: at the business end is the branding iron, glowing like the inside of a star ― or ― so I suppose. For your ass ― it hisses, coming back down, closer to home. Not to mention the unbecoming ― though mysterious ― fit of the crèche. But who’s to say it’s not serious. UNABLE to breathe. Unable to move. Ask any orange. Juiced. Isn’t that you?