Summer

Floating in a tin can, a dirty dozen with bulbous heads, spindly necks and corky arms... eyes and lips fevered with a strange electronic disease. Their ears ring with vibrating tongs, their teeth chatter in giddy haste. The dirty dozen float in a tin can, hopeless painless regardless.

The dirty dozen catch the dead wind, in a sea of pink, the colour of rust. A distant light carrouses at a distance, a drunked firefly's entrails are on fire, sickly and alive in its sickness, the light keeps everything in part darkness. Still and solid shadows await in flesh the wrenching cry of the dirty dozen. The dirty dozen freeze, the tin can rustles, the drunked firefly is now a powder wasp with thoughtless patterns on its petals.

The dirty dozen unfocussed lie, trundling, breathing, gasping not. Circuits flicker and their tongues come loose. In funny wheezes to a rolling audience they narrate arid tales of many horrors. Noisy sparks fly out as their tongues click together.. they flicker a while and die out. Their tales are lost in this pitiful transition.