#GIMP 6, As if BT aren’t a beige robot with septic teeth.

As if life isn’t already a Maned Sloth at a rural bus stop, staring desolate through the moorland sleet. With our trumpet faced, sucrose yodellers, and our Zyrconium conversations, spat like ego-plated bullets in antiseptic fields, smiles and soil as fake as Santa’s cocaine promises. As if it isn’t a triumph to face the people that truly matter without our hearts stuttering into thin piss. As if our albino love doesn’t already flinch, shocked at the rare brilliance of reciprocation. As if the squashed hermit of our soul isn’t sick. Weak and pallid from slithering around subterranean sludge, looking for meaning in far-flung pinholes of hope. As if loneliness doesn’t hack at our compassion like a rusty axe, and self-consciousness choke us like a fat forearm around Ghandi’s neck. As if all this isn’t more than enough.

And then British Telecom won’t let you tell them that your nan has died. Your nan, who fixed your split and bloody face after the O’Malley brothers beat the innocence from your eyes. Your nan whose life was bigger than nine dragons. Your nan who you saw wither from gold to grey through the wet cracks in your fingers. As if talking isn’t hard enough with a coarse knot of memories churning your throat. As if being mortal isn’t already more nettle than dock leaf. Sat there all ash and embers. Sat there like a sad potato. Sat there angry and relieved as a recording of a robot informs you that it clocks off at six. Tomorrow morning I will tell the BT robot that my nan is dead.

“Please enter the number you are calling about on the keypad” The robot will say.

“She was a fucking tiger you constipated toaster” I’ll mutter, as my middle trembles and I inhale in heartsick staccato.

As if understanding isn’t hard enough without robots tazering your grief.