The Appraisal

My printer cartridge face was low on ink.

Woodwork Wednesday’s resurfaced, pacing my 

breath like a cross-country runner chased by

Frankenstein’s monster. Swimming gala’s drowned

my confidence. Binary Normans charged through

my spleen, mashing the past into now. The

stench of lumpy custard seeped out as I

waited. Last rites were performed by tortured 

artists bullied by convention. Dali

walked in. My CPU was far too high.