Kerry W. Zentner

What defines individual consciousness? Is it merely an allocation of electric meat? The tortures of solitude leave a fine imprint on the minds of contemporary vertebrates. Emotions squandered in dark avenues, haunted by the perfumes of cheap inmates, who condescend to molest the evenings of a Toronto summer. The bottled sweat of a millennia of ancient sea life which now walks the land, harbouring their swift twinges of snarling resentment, which slobber over to fertilize the landfill. The porcelain lamplight of dread which closes doors and seals all rooms with a furnished dyssomnia, entering vowels into the journals of the dead. Ennui, leaning sympathetically against a railway car as the dust-choked horizon peals away into a veil of pink stars. Time is lost in laundromats, counting small change, and the archaic graininess of wooden music is drifting its ethereal mobius strip through the air. Nothing answers the questions anymore. The wind howls in some arcane frontispiece. A blue iguana falls like water into the night.