Writing from the stemistry lab
Miscreation
by Christopher Barnes
Frank Blench flummoxed the stubble on his arms with a bed-white
Acetate, temporised an asthmatic pant, number-tapping the
Fluorescent door.
Seconds overdriven with industry are irredeemable, misspent, minutes
That could be finished to slow-up baby making.
This size of day strains, inborn, goosefleshed, blunting hourly routines to
A circuit of sinks, white coats, timeless redoing, human-animal
Hybrids, foot-shuffling…