Dada Poofa Proofs

A feint, then a faint.

Deception became an instructor. I’ve an iconic hare that stands sentinel and immediately cups my hair as it sheds. I shed often.

I’ve a silky laconic manner about me. I once subcontracted a zoo and turned it into a pop-up delicatessen. Bactrian camel and mozzarella sub, anyone? Crispy pan-fried capybara on ciabatta? No?

I’ve turned largely nocturnal. I’m wound tightly. I’m short on straitjackets and spending late nights on deathbeds—and even though I’m young at heart, I drowse during every family homily.

Homonculi melancholia . . . I’m set to stare straight into the eclipse for the duration. I’m going coronal!

I’m full of desolate masterworks in the potential and praying for a sequined dictator to institute austerity measures from above.

You might say I’m distilled from the epiglottis up.

I’ve got the dada poofa proofs to prove it!

What I’m Reading:

Behind her, the sun is going out fighting with all its rays. We are sitting in the dining room and she is cutting a fat round loaf of bread. Absently, she puts a slice onto my plate. I tear it apart with my fingers, gently. A human ear drops out. Her look cuts her finger on the bread knife and the rain seethes.

— Dambudzo Marechera / Black Sunlight