The West has been kneed in the gut. The vegetable cut is a freakish moor in the winter landscape. A freezing fresh gutter of fish heads and balloon bellies. The television set is a cut throat after it became pregnant with Cindy. This is a dirty word. Just a good fit for pulpy orange juice, sip it with caution or it will burn the front two teeth. The thighs hinge until they’re oiled, and if never boiled then the winter is going to consume it with gravy from the boat. The dress is suspicious as furious heels yammer on tiles, the machines in the printing room honking. Enormous paper cut and floating tongue in cheek. Milky trance inside liquid pen leaks and a manicured finger buds with warts from giant yawns, coughing with wings. Nobody wants their fingers to fly away. In grey clouds where stanzas sing but go unheard. Around dinner tables with saggy faces putting sops into their tums. Sipping hot orange juice until the whirs wear out and the veal goes cold – will you have it with soup? Maybe wheat on a tired eye. And maybe a late night news updating on a thick piece of lamb chop yelling about towns combusting with brief spontaneity. Don’t listen to the news, it’s a dirty word. Some dairy wobbles.