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On the tableI saw time moving backwards, the sheet pulled away,
The toe-tag toy-tag removed,
White fingers pressed cold metal, fingertips and fingerprints,
Red on the white as the blood rushed back.
The hollows of their ribs filling out, the hollow chest
moving again, sloping like waves
and cold blue breath in cold silver room
with doors to coffins in the walls
and bodies served up on platters,
labelled, un-garnished and un-stuffed.
They might twitch when the blood rushes back and
they might go red and breathe too fast
because they're not used to the pace,
lips still blue.
the stitches in their Y-front chest
remove themselves, intertwined, criss-crossed,
crude and bold, they unwind,
and curl back into their bobbin.
Flesh peeled back, they get filled up
Heart, lungs, kidney, the rest of it
and the ribs, uncracked, cage them in
safe and well kept.
And they'd get up, panicked, confused
pupils dilated and darting
the white glaze that comes down when
the shows done, curtains closed,
get pulled up and t
Broken GlassShould be read in a slow voice
And get faster,
Building to a climax, or an anticlimax of a climax,
trickles into a crash,
A sharp fast bullet, and the cracks that spread,
heat spread from fingertips,
elevated senses and vibrations that extend and shiver
from pricked ears,
from a revelation,
from nothing special, but well felt.
From a world that can take no more.
And what we do touches and creeps through glass,
leaving veins, and blood and patterns,
Small and indistinguishable, but present,
Slowly weakens it,
Until we shatter it,
With the lasting echo,
Shatters like bells,
Erupting into silver, shining dust.
from sand, beaten by water,
heated by fire,
transparent and shining,
Dissolving with each vein,
Each bullet child
Throwing glass vases at walls,
Leaving no one, leaving shards,
Leaving lilies on the floor.
Yellow onceThat's the thing isn't it? Just the thing. Anytime, anywhere, any small biting coincidence. Or just some conclusion after a long series of mistakes, and words you shouldn't have said. And I get to think about that through the incessant buzz of everything in every corner of this goddamn place while Mary turns on taps and turns off taps and pitter-patters around the wet floor square we call a bathroom. And I bite down on my tongue so I don't snap at her.
I love her, sure. But god, god, sometimes. Sometimes I hate her.
She doesn't answer, she's turning on taps. She's picking things up and putting them down and focusing very hard on the mirror.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. She walks by me, past the bed, and I watch her while she peers through the blinds. There are flies. Fly paper strips doing nothing to stop them. Traps never seem to work. I've never seen a mouse in a mouse trap other than on the TV. I've seen mice walk right round it and back into its
Was it easyI used to believe that the world was small, that it was mine, and everyone else was a character in a play, and when I died I'd be born, my life a foetus dream, that would just carry on. I used to believe and that was enough. That people were honest.
I thought that things were easy.
Now I believe in science, and ghosts, and sometimes my gut, but I don't believe in much.
I was afraid of death, shouting, flapping wings, creaks and the shadows on my walls. I'm afraid it'll all get broken. I'm afraid of truth and lies. I'm afraid I understand too well and too little.
Of how little I can believe in.
The dusty light in the morning, stretching over our bed. And how it all gets when I focus.
To our place that was my place, to the morning with the dusty light, under white sheet tents where it's warm. Belong in the nook, the other side of the rest of the world. I belong in the bubble.
I can't do most things.
When I learnt about the universe and my place in it, my slow evolution, and how many thin
Silver BoxPragmatic disposition of a sun-kissed machine,
Tendrils of humanity
And uncertainty slinks,
With indecision, paranoia,
The green of a developed mind.
Contradictions in a silver box,
Should've stayed in the shade.
Cut with a knife the right side of your box,
Slide your skull thinking-cap back on
And leave you in systematic bliss,
For you to process,
Clearly and cleanly,
That your heart is just a pump,
Like your polished smile,
Permit you gently to sidestep
The density, vast idiocy,
Of the intricate mind,
Allow you Yes No answers.
Sucked dry-fly, pale fish
Tamed and regulated with ill-bred consent,
Easily easily pleased.
Sweet NothingsThe sweet nothings are nothing,
Kisses empty red,
Empty black room,
Bare lightbulb on bare floorboards,
Flies on fly-paper strips,
Stuck and mad,
A maddening, timeless death.
The knot will not stay tied,
No bullet will please,
No razor no blade no fall,
No level of sex,
celibacy or otherwise.
To pass endless time.
How sad to be invincible.
Perfect mind, perfect soul,
Easy perfect thoughts,
Sick, sad and desperate as they are.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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