Exoskeletons and Horticulture.

The fridge motor it hums
As I plod along
from Point 'A'.

I avoid Point 'B',
I avert my gaze
as though shielding my eyes from the visceral winter sun.

Indicators on.

Point 'B' is no eruption/A-1.
Point 'B' is a stumble, sometimes a trip or fall,
Sometimes a grazed knee
The knee is sometimes hairless and distorted.

I plod, I am aware Tortoise does not beat Hare.
Tortoise Point 'B' is still plosive, but when life is soft it is sibilant.
Slow and steady hissing life leak.
Nothing harshhhh.

Oh the glow of 'B' is without Hollywood finesse.
It sits and grows the other side of the refrigerator light, humming.
Food calls,
it echoes inside the cold dis-comfort in the hungry dead of
Night time.
The motor hums.
The indicators tick.
The clock ticks.
The joints click.

Air bubbles in the joints and in the brain.
Frozen comfort soothe our skins.
Let us giggle uncontrollably.
Swimming in nausea
and our temporary fridge-lit insanity.
Caress our evil trends.
Just supplant a smile, a
A warm fridge-lit smile
Minus phenylalanine,
And it's not perspex.
It's translucent like crepe paper or Quality Street wrappers and ever more so as time excels
Out of sight, out of space.
It defies either.

Now you cross fingers and crucify yourself.
You want desperately the point.
To get to the point.
Like so many times before.

The Point is Point 'B'.
Now go.