Rain gossips underneath iron. Rain tastes the bicycle, watches it rust. Rain changes into iron. Buried cars are crushed by the weight of worms. Rain picture-shifts into an iron photo of my father.
Mange-riddled wolf compiles my father using a plague-box and creates a Scotch Western. Why did the stereo-glove ignore my glowing father? How come this iron rain flooded my father? His vehicle is its own logo.
Father Rain leaps! He leaps across the conduit and smokes a strange brown deposit. He laughs, then cycles home beneath a tourist. Father Rust objects. He eats a Hostess Rung Cake and slowly bursts. Father Rain decays!
Father Rust scores beneath the trash. This is a farce, he reckons. Why can’t I reach behind the microwave? Father Iron listens, then gestures. There is dust on his hands.
Ignore this line - it’s just a parody. A laughing peanut socket.
These booklets randomly document your father’s decline, they eventually told him. Sand him down, I say! Sand him down until only iron remains. Iron and rain.