Coffee drips through the filter, clinking into the perspex pot below, gently filling the vessel with caffeinated, cola-coloured beverage, murky and particulate, to be creamed with milk post-pour.
The world is liquid; seventy percent sea, the ground below the crust molten and flowing, viscous pulses of melted metals and flame; all above decaying, slowly putrefying, descending to the basal state of puddles, spreading out into lakes of stagnance, emanating, oozing from the central bodily point of the heart like wet dough, cling-filmed. The air condensing, the earth melting, and each point individual, yet universal in its aim, to find a comfort.
There was that time in Chemistry where Mr. Ahmed leant over a Bunsen burner and his tie ignited, the fire tearing up the polyester like the rubber runner on a ‘Test Your Strength’ mallet machine. He fanned at his chest, impersonating a Regency lady, patting his palm to his pectorals, slapping the emberous knotted stump, shouting for a wet towel.
Vapours, miasmas, clouds of cancerous condensations lurk in the dank streets, hanging fogly and dim, curling rotten strands around passing bonnets and canes, staining starched petticoats and patent shoes, touching the cobbles and collapsing into droplets that gather in divots and precipitate a pool of bilious consistency, ready to be rippled by a boot-heel, a wheel or a hoof.