He’s on the TV again. A grand announcement. His mouth moves like a machine. His teeth are too white. Someone’s working him from behind. 

You don’t masturbate often. Can’t muster the enthusiasm. Anyway, your hands are reptilian, and that’s a turnoff. 

Things happen fast, but nothing changes. You’re quite the philosopher. 

  
When you look at blood under a microscope it wriggles because it objects to the gaze of the observer, especially if the observer is male or creepy or dead. 

Supermarkets are morgues for the living. 

A woman came up to you the other day and asked if she could bite your neck. You had no idea how to respond, so you pretended you hadn’t heard her. She asked you again, quite loudly, and people around you struggled to feign a lack of interest. You looked at her red mouth and felt sick. She was probably an actress. You couldn’t see a camera crew though. 

  
Dreams are nothing to be ashamed of, except perhaps for wet dreams. 

In your favourite dream you run a business that manufactures countries and sells them to drug addicts. Profits soar, like eagles. Bar graphs strike mean poses. Your minions do everything you say, even if you’re only joking. It’s a massive turn on. 

You once killed a bear and flayed it. Then you made its skin into a suit, which you wear to the office whenever you’re up for promotion. A bear is easy to kill. All you have to do is stun it by reciting haiku, then finish it off with a sonnet. It’s child’s play. More people should try it.

  
When he’s speaking cities crumble and monuments to his decisiveness, Machiavellianism and virility shoot up from the dust. Members of the opposition droop in the shadow of his achievements. Snap snap snap chat chat chat. Cameras and eyes and mouths go mad. If you see his face on a billboard you’re likely to feel nauseous or afraid or angry. If only you could remember his name.