Spun: The Fever

By Tara Campbell

You will be intoxicated. Your otherwise bland floundering will be susceptible to the repetitious looping (bop/pop) and your body will convulse to mimic the beat. Fuck not with destiny. But please remember, cut the strings connecting the puppet and we can no longer prophesize your future.

American night culture is rising against us. With this kind of indoctrination, they’ll be coming in thousands. The army will be so exuberant you won’t be able to let go and all you will have to sacrifice is your right hand as it grows into a mirror. Which really could be quite handy. Subtle instances midway through the journey may cause you to fear the fall of your gargantuan, soma popping army. “The curtains are burning/the furniture’s kindling”.

Please be patient. Every ideology has an unsuspecting tragic flaw. But you will be once again be Hexxxed: “be my baby/me carved our initials in the hangman’s tree.” Every member joined the Red Bedroom under this tree; the location of their first kiss. Such soft memories will pull you back in like a whirlpool. And then you can rest.