A Pitcher Plant

Life is a forlorn, forsaken wildebeest being steadfastly devoured by unseen jaws. It is a gob of spittle, cursorily vented from the mouth of god, which glistens briefly, frail and unconnected, then dissolves. It is a disguise, which no-one will ever penetrate. It is a succulent piece of fruit, which falls untasted from fumbling fingers, and is consumed by oceanic silence.

And yes, it is, of course, an idiot's mindless rant, the ear-splitting sound of which can all too easily obscure its lack of substance.

It is all of this, and more besides - an unintelligible surfeit of sensory data, an infinitude of wrong answers to an impossible sum, an old man with a harelip drooling in remembrance of the breast, a joke that boasts a different punch-line every time it is told, the corpse of a unicorn presented in bite-sized chunks to a woman without a mouth.

A pitcher plant.