Not the hot kind, not the crisp kind, not the burn your tongue with vinegar and ting kind. I like cold chips, the morning after the night before chips, lieing around in the chip wrappings like slobs at the seaside chips. Big fatty bertha chips. Big fatty bert chips. Lathered in the sunscreen of yesterdays fat chips, fruitlessly suntanning in the overcast memories of the kitchen of the night before chips. Sloppy, impotent chips, waning in an eclipse chips, bowed between the sliding grip of thumb and forefinger chips. Guilty chips. Chips that should be binned chips. No way jose for the refuse men chips. Rescued from the horse feed chips. Clagging up the inside chips. On an empty stomach after you’ve brushed your teeth half way out the door chips. Swallowed undisturbed into the safe house of the pot belly dark. Skinny hairless runts come home to the nest that borne them. I like em. Cold chips. Prodigal tatties. Laid to rest. One hand tenderly cradling the stomach of their departure. Digested. Cold chips. Hot at last.
Jet McDonald 