Mr. Hate’s voice has buggered off, done one, is now on the lam.
You’ll not see it but bychrist you’ll hear it.
He can’t find it anywhere.
It’s dun a bunk, pissed off, is now on the run.
He looks around the bedroom. Nothing. His feet slip into cold slippers. Here is joy. Not joy. Coldness. He brushes his teeth. The ones that are left. More lacunae than calcium. Would say “fuck” and “shit” repeatedly just to expel the silence if he could. He suffers pleasure
bangs and hammers with the hope the neighbors will be entertained. He checks inside the oven. Nothing. He checks inside the fridge. Still nothing.
Mr. Hate turns on the television.
Ads ease the pain and suffering of pleasure
A Politician sits within the television.
Mr. Hate listens.
The front room is pebbledashed with beautiful ad hominems.
Unable to abate his horrid voice he shouts:
“There you are.”
Harry Mytlehouse
aiurea press 