The things I know but don'tShallow, padding on sand closer, a yellow iris bitten tight to mine and calling my chest to crack from its centre, the desert wide open. Back flat, sweat seeps, pulled downwards, through to ground that feelsThe things I know but don't
still warm from the long day's sun and rough like the jackal's hot tongue which smoothes the splinters of my ribcage flung apart in grating glee encircling something far too vast and hard.
There is something about the colour and shine of treacle in all of this.
The jackal and I swooped an orbit around and watched the birds spill into the sky
Shared BedYou swam away, little fish, in the nighttime. And when the sun came up you turned and wriggled slippery hard against the current, throwing shines from you mirror scales bounding across the four walls. Sliver fins burrowing through an outer skein of sleep. You shelled yourself and writhing, woke gill-less, agapeShared Bed
and smiling in the happy net of an angler. Everyone sang; "The prettiest fish that we've seen". You were the prettiest fish I had seen.
Hotel DustShe's started the games again. I can feel her twisting the cogs in me, tightening everything. My spine is held straighter, violin-string taut; the small bones of my fingers bend only with an increased effort. It happens this way. At the beginning it is almost imperceptible, there is a small, measured space in all her actions and a decision dilutes her eyes with internal clouded focus. Lately, the centimetres she keeps between her two palms on my back are careful and calibrated, I can sense her counting the seconds that she holds my gaze. It makes me nervous. We live in a room in the Mobray Hotel. I like it here, it is vast, we canHotel Dust
Old Friend Going AloneIts was when we were down at the factory, friend, by the chocolate dead waterfront and our four eyes quadrupled and all the different skies were visible at once. So many spheres strung together circling our cloddish centre. I thought that we knewOld Friend Going Alone
and could say it as seen, but recently all I can tell you
is that the reflections of clouds I see might be inverted. You don't care. You are busy making muscles spring from your pale chest. You are climbing some mountain somewhere. I hope that you'll send me a postcard with a photograph on it.
Perhaps
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My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean - so Bunbury died
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My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean - so Bunbury died
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