For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

and waning produces a horrific pullulating of black pus
from what I thought was STUBBLE but is in fact a network
of gaping pores. It sweats according to the lunar cycle.
Uniquely, the occasional fascination of Saturn appears to
induce a certain bioluminescence in the tumour. This can be
perceived ever so faintly through the fat, muscle and skin –
as well as the summer-tog duvet – that entombs the bastard
thing. (Sitting upright in bed, staring bewildered at your
PLUMP torso, which hums with a halogen heat and the sickly
fluorescence of a Timex wristwatch. 1,216 billion kilometres
away, Saturn screams a ridiculous question to THE BLACK.)
A man-eater is
its name when
the wane. STA-
most likely to fulfil
the moon is on
TISTICALLY.
[…]
Like the in-
scrutable face
of a vinyl re-
cord, bought
without inspec-
tion from a charity
shop: Bobby Vinton sounding profoundly prelingually
deaf, his accompanying band made up of death-rattling
lungs slumped gross all over the bandstand, his voice an
unintelligible burble of senile regrets (Dolly? [...] Dolly?)
A glass marble, retrieved from a SCROTAL NET SACK
(caul, offal), shot through with a beautiful tumbling horizon
of reds, greens. This then slotted into the flapping socket
to affect a rosier outlook (close the other eye). Chin up.
(That stubborn Brazil nut, refusing to yield entire, shatters
DULLY, insisting upon the employment of your scraping