there was mauve sky dripping milky pellets into shopping bags wrinkled like skin of a woman on 'extreme makeover' that i saw on tv for only one second before i felt sick in my shoulders. pulled up tight enough to rattle the flat clack pebbles in my spine.
o. my. flittery stickling heart shivers a little in the gap between how it may be and how it really is, but this morning, who cares who carves into that venation and what leaks out where. because I know that by night, hap hunters will bare sharpened teeth and pinch the handles of scalpels sterilised in eagerness to turn the good pulpy parts to clean stream and ripple, like boys out of love. such things should never be
cut, dried, drafted, or it could all end up like the onward walking leg i noticed during my lunch break yesterday. betwixt intricate fronds of embedded pigment, girlfriend's face stared from behind boyfriend's shapely left calf. she will look forever down a nose inked long and sort-of lop-sided, at his heels.
+++thanks for saying lovely things about this idiot thing; i'm stunned slightly scarlet
sleep-dreams of a familiar locale. sun shone all over the lawn. grass had yellowed under the body. hair had sprouted from face. steel breathing butterflies flapping in his throat. you know that one. close church air stuffed our lungs with silver lace, soft perfume of filigree-conjuring flames and baskets of fruit, ineluctable prizes for guessing misspelt names on birth certificates & more i won't recall; i just got that feeling, you know? you don’t need to though, so stop.
2:30 p.m.: triple serving of deep fried hair and battered arms, with extra salt please.
you see the words that I can’t say. (sic)
before I was a
wax doll in Bendigo, the rage was all for sticks, stones, bones, names
in forearms. lunchtimes, we would taunt ladybugs with our fingernails. little fuckers enjoying the feel of the spring air against their crispy carapaces.
flick. licker. that was the year my brother bought me the
Frente! cassingle
