Sebastian Schloessingk


Men’s inner city muscle gym leg days
are rumoured to be much shirked.
Everyone wants the pecs, sleevebustout
biceps. Anyhow legs are known to
be less responsive (and calves often not

at all) to the onslaught of the laggard
sweating self in the pavement-peer-through
glass dungeon of machines. ‘That boy’s
a bit fat’ - I indicated
a small figure with gibbous armour

in a CBBC animation.
‘No, he’s not!’ the reply, shot back.
‘He’s a knight. Knights are never fat.’
Cage-fighting, kick-texting, where it’s at.
There’s been a step-up in stabbiness

too, whereby the usual 2D
Loser sign - launched at the hapless
with finger and thumb at 90º -
gets a third dimension middle finger
L blast. On the subject of the

ever-developing hand, no thriller,
no actioner would dream of someone
any longer checking someone’s pulse
as formerly at the wrist. Has to be,
for the gumshoe citizen (muscle bulk

tamed by coat), down on one knee, lightly
thumb and index to the side of the throat
of those found streetfallen or desk-slumped.
‘I was like result.’ This from boy walking
behind in the dark of cold nourished

people stream passing the Samuel-Palmerish
church, quitting the field of fireworks. To cap
his meticulous ‘I was like’, ‘She was
like’ report of a conversation
(or stichomythia) with.