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Writing from the stemistry lab

Miscreation

by Christopher Barnes

About this author

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…