I’m obviously making goth cookies. I’ll have almost black cookies with red icing.
and I look like this:
Time for buckles to beget music. Stir in some bouncy sorrow, the kind you can write with under a crisp british beat. Toss in vocals from a choir voice egg, golden yolked and sickly sugar. Kill me a brace of briar rabbits, soft fur pelted from childhood dreams. Sear their hearts in garlic butter and salt them with tears.
There’s no reason to worry, this world is almost done.
Just a touch of heavy handed parenting, a snippet of front page news. You’re old enough to play in the kitchen. Violence like sex, honey, opiate for the masses like molasses, like maternity leave denied. I’ve an Ice Queen stir-stick, lick it with a rose-petal tongue but don’t beware the thorns. The bowls getting full now, hope bittersweet sprinkled to taste.
baby got an atom bomb