Nothing better to do, I fish the milk out
of the ditch and crucify it… but I haven’t any nails. So I wait for a nail to
come along in the shape of a milk tanker (there are lots of farms hereabouts). As
I wait in the ditch, like a tramp - like the dispossessed drifter in Jeff
Wall’s photograph of milk exploding - I think of Edgerton’s Milk Drop Coronet, I
think of Roland Barthes being run over by a laundry van: all that intellect hit
by linen… Barthes hit by towels. I think these things yet I’m uncertain whether
or not I was breast-fed. I think so much about milk yet I don’t drink it.
Never. Soya. Where’s that milk tanker? I phone my mother but she’s out. I leave
a message: was I breast-fed?
Lost in these thoughts I hadn’t noticed the
milk was bleeding. Like road-kill.
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