They postulate too much.

Never would they make it in my world.

Beneficence always drew a chord through my guts,

Soon I shall wear their teeth.


The desk was grey, but

Around the edges the material was softer,

A darker hue. There

Were grooves and crags, some with streaks

Of biro and felt pen clinging chemically to the surface.

Overhead, the panel lights

Artistically spaced by some wasted designer twenty

Years ago pulse their sputum coloured

Radiation down on my head.

I look up, and

I can see dried out fly carcasses

Imprinted on the insides of the covers.


I was making all the right noises; you see,

I had to make noises because of the ludicrous

Fat man who was talking to me.

He was my boss.

But that didn't matter.

The carpet was green. Not bright,

But not dark; probably when it was new it looked

Worse than it does now with

Those black stains on it which never seem

To come out, some bits

More faded than others due to the relentless burn imposed by the sun

And the moving of equipment and

Bodies over the years.


I noticed the fat man had stopped talking;

Perhaps he is using his interpersonal skills and has noticed

My body language

Is showing him that I am not paying him any heed.

Outside, the sun is shining.

Even from here I can hear the world, several stories below;

I walked to work today, slowly.

Normally I would have driven, but today the world needed me.

The fat man barked, or something, I was

Able to discern it as an attention seeking noise, not far removed from

A boisterous chimp's song out somewhere in Madagascar.

I smiled.


Today I had seen the trees, miles east of work

In the brilliant morning sun, waxy green leaves waving to me,

the undergrowth humming with

Tiny moving exoskeletons.

My pants were muddy, fatty had broken into a sweat;

I was staring at the back of his computer monitor,

One of the old ones that works

With an electron gun; I thought about smashing it over his head.

How many pixels can a fat man eat?

By the time I had entered the city limits

I had lost most of my clothing; it

Must have been about lunch time when I finally arrived

At work,

Swallowing their anxious stares like a

Magical elixir.


I worked at my station for a good eight

Minutes before I was summoned to see fatty

In the meeting room.

The meeting room is boring,

Grey and green with black bits. I could

Smell fatty's arm pits; fuck,

I could feel them.

He wouldn't have thought twice about my world;

Not until I was wearing his teeth. And by the

Look on his face…


I felt his shirt go first,

That's the thing about fountain pens,

A good parker with an Iridium nib allows you to feel your work;

The texture of his shirt popping

Before the pen slickly entered his frumpy mid-section

Causing severe trauma to his Liver; felt like

The first thrust of passionate intercourse.

I started warbling on about

What a lovely morning I had enjoyed as

I removed the pen and stabbed him again; the ink mixing with his blood

Turning it deep purple.

He was clutching my elbows as his seizing

Body chugged forward, racked with pain.

I told him how I had rolled in the dead pine needles

And stared into the deep blue sky;

He fell to his knees.


I think he was still alive when I was screaming

At him about how shit

The meeting room colour scheme was; but he had no eyes

At that point.

One thing I always liked about fatty,

He could always take a bit of constructive criticism.

That's why I freed him,

That's why I have his teeth.