Throat Meat by Cupp Cave

There’s something quixotic about Francis. His world is inhabited by improbable vegetarian Texan zombies on Mexican mushrooms, all thumbs and two left feet. They build those head-nodding toys for feet-shuffling kids. Terry Gilliam is their leader. He’s wearing those red & blue cardboard glasses we were told were 3d when we were kids. He’s hammered on cough syrup. He says he’s making a remake of A Fistful of Dollars. But he’s only got a Polaroid. Drink from my cup he says, with his regal tone, king-sized and street-wise - an easy task you might say when you can count your streets with both your hands - as he rolls them out, lazy beat by hazy bleep. I feel like Don King. I feel like chewing on a wafer. This colour’s not right. Everything’s plastic.

Some people drink, some collect stamps,
some prefer gardening or cross-dressing. This is our thing. This is our two-word gesture
to life as a statistic. In case of anxiety, just infuse longer.

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