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Scene Speak

Katowice centre has the highest percentage of limping people per capita. The table in this café keeps tipping. Hands won’t get warm. Ice cobra of the mind. Caution for the darkness that rumbles from the post-communist trams. Glops of kebab stick to the pavement. Fingers null. Old homes mold holes. Word my brain. Best to crank up the velocity when alone without water gas and air. Caffeine hovers and words squirt the windows. Advertisements are thrust into passing hands. More interesting arrangements are made in the making. Proud Polish smiles on V-day with couples and roses and other clichés. This is a staring culture suspicious until proven otherwise. Chocolate melts through the fingers. The cover story covers half the brain. Cream centre or saucy filling. Indent with the skull duly noted. This is the prime condition. Bells ring out the god delusion. Expectancy is a paper-thin silhouette. Lots of gibber in this joint. Poland is a giant sausage. An alien language goes swish swash szish swzisch. Reality is dug out. Including such things as authenticity doesn’t shine anyone’s shoes. About the eyes: let’s forget all about these ceilings. A paper heart is sealed in oxygen. Comments are relegated to the restored body. Gristles and groans. Another mask in the making. Imitation gum sticks to the molars. Hairy nostrils. Crabbed into bitter flavours the body rings for tailors. Robots emerge for the linguists. You’re too slow for the bakeload. Scene speak. Click. Dare to wade into beings. Beached bottles and rotten onions for cold fevers. Tune-in to tattered signals.