Appendix Control, All-Hands

ALERT 04:12 —

Appendix Control to Cortex: red siren, four-beep alarm.

McBurney’s lighthouse pulses SOS under the right iliac crest, stressed, possessed.

Subject “Iris” sampled Dissociation Lite again—

called it “a microdose of perspective,” then held a panel discussion with the fridge light.

The mayonnaise blinked first, I swear—not fair.

-

CONTAINMENT —

Spin up Normalcy Protocol. Protocol returns null / skull full of static.

Reroute to Smile Subroutine — subroutine over-spills our teeth. Sh—!

Deploy small-talk patch: weather, leather, tram delays, praise decays.

Pretend the glitter on the sternum is SPF residue,

deny the bruise, the muse, the holy interview.

When truth starts bubbling—gas builds up in a jar—

crack the lid—let it fart into small talk air, car-park flair.

-

MISSION: PASS FOR MORNING —

We run the school heist on borrowed grace.

Barcode communion at the bento altar; other mums tithe Tupperware calm.

I offer a Coles banana with a thumbprint bruise—news bruise, truth ooze.

Say “we’re dairy-free adjacent,” a phrase with no fixed address.

Lie #1 (to teacher): “Early night!”

Lie #2 (to mothers): “Just journaling!”

Lie #3 (to self): “Hydration equals salvation.”

Sanitiser bites glitter; smile shows eight teeth, two on retainer.

Someone mentions mindfulness; I chew my tongue for proof of life.

-

THREAT SURFACES —

Bus stop. Collarbone radio loops: stat stop swallow smile.

Alpha Matron arrives, beige visor, eyes like surgical lasers.

Handbag smells of antiseptic and verdict.

She tilts her head—hunter etiquette—

says, “You’re walking crooked, dear.”

Appendix Control hisses: Don’t confess, don’t address, just progress.

My mouth blurts: “Hidden rudder, ma’am.”

She sniffs—detects last night’s philosophy, second-hand ecstasy, legacy.

We counterfeit a cough, launder the sin, bin it under Monday—mundane.

-

SURGICAL RUMOR —

They’re everywhere—surgeons in cardigans, cardinals in scrubs.

They’ll mark nil per os at midnight (nothing by mouth, just south).

They’ll wheel us under the cold constellations of theatre lights,

paint an iodine halo, name us “nonessential,”

then cut the poet out of the plumbing, humming.

Keep cover, speak of compostable wipes,

smile till the air fog tastes like sterile fear.

-

EVACUATION ON FOOT —

Walk fast; shopfront glass records two of me, both off-duty.

Lower-right star keeps blinking: stat stat stat—rat-tat-tat—

like the organ’s got jazz fever.

I narrate to the pavement: “Gait within parameters, truth under sedation.”

No reply; the street has Bluetooth off.

Appendix Control drops to battery save,

mutters in dial-up tones, “hold the line.”

I nod at nothing, pass for daylight,

iodine taste ghosting my tongue, lungs drunk on antiseptic hum.

Somewhere inside, a phantom consent form folds itself into a paper crane

and flies the gut corridor singing, walk it off, Iris, walk it off.

Walk it off...

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