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Sickness on a Plane

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  • 3 min read

by Tim Frank

Regal wretches struggling to weave tapestries of skin dipped in febrile gap years. Allow me to introduce myself, I am the guts of your tambourine flirting with black eyes and your evening mist outside the inflatable window.

Here comes the trolley from infernos of boredom as passengers squeeze into the clouds and reek of B.O. They stand on their hands, then pirouette. But please remain seated as I breathe concrete into the overhead luggage and strip the walls clean like captives in a zoo.

In the hole, there is a healing vibe but only for those who can afford extortionate prices. Have you made peace with God? Not at this event, with all the poets robbing each other for ripe collagen lips. They don’t care about the sickness spreading through the plane, eating ghosts, scarring Chanel handbags with fingerprints and insect wings.

There’s a woman down front raging at her neighbour, raging at the sky, raging at her decrepit taboos. She’s finally restrained with a pair of chopsticks and salted peanuts full of Noah’s Ark.

Landing isn’t easy—everyone on board has jumped on the pilot, massaged his feet and autocorrected his texts to his his drabby drug dealer who is clean enough and has been knighted.

The cabin crew aren’t bothered, they eat their lunch and prepare to smash algebra with telephones. The bumpy ride can only elevate their sarcasm towards hoovers falling into the sea.

On land there’s solemn crimes foreshadowing garlic breath and elevator music. Passengers pitch tents and cough lumps of sugar into barrels of cougars immersed in sand.

At arrivals people infect a nation of crumbling cable channels, and taxis eat soldiers of fortune in their glad rags.

Aunts welcome their sons to the alien base and pit their wits against Slovenian grandmasters. Fire at will, is the order, but, disappointingly, most survive and head to the bar with sunburn. Architects mentally undress spring break students who wave revolutionary flags through the departure lounge.

A rare bit of meat sidles up to his celebrity crush and paints zinc on the ceiling. The celebrity has had enough, stands on a box of razor blades, cuts off his tongue and speaks through an orange.

Blah, blah, blah, he says, blah, blah.

In navy green shorts and a dump truck trailblazer he straps on a Milky Way face mask. Everyone sings their native song then files out of the exit knowing their name has been called from the fields, and it won’t be long before they’re sick from eating watered down automobiles and hotel shampoos. What a shame.

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