for the winter, I am cultivating a snug jerkin of algae, thickly wet upon my shoulders. last year I went without and was stung by sand wind flicked. I understand the importance of keeping my garment moist, for once slick foliage dries and scratches, hordes of feral kids will scamper from dunes, hoist and dump me on their midden and set it alight or something. & I was thinking about the pond surface crammed with those tiny fleshy discs, and the types of eyes you can find in leaf gaps. (in ho chi minh city a yellow gecko peeped from the fishpond edge as we shared a mask and snorkel, collecting tadpoles for tea. I was reminded of the white-feathered budgie's death six years past, at the bottom of the cage. one sparkling eye festered in grit.)
braised a thin cushion damp, hay locks of lopped doll skull, toenails the colour shelled peanuts, grubby bobble hair elastics and picked paint scabs on the asphalt. that tenderness prepares you for bruising.
chin-strokers and hair-strokers and heart-welts hatched. cross cross cross. lights elope before the sun comes up, gloves
figs. slob clods hawk. yellowy lumps bob, cloy carp in pond. do you think i'm pretty?
I emptied her kitchen drawer: garlic press, plastic fork, stacked nescafe lids, various knives, egg whirlies, walnut cracker, big chop chopper, terse lice comb, eating spoons, rancid basters, spotted ladle, belladonna dropper, melon scoop.
I hosed and left to dry: ginger-pickling pots, shed, rusted walking frame.
I pegged sheets. their colour frightened the bed and bejesus out the friday with all light heading west and them bleached billowing headways. the traces of it fresh stretched green by the grass and air thick behind just horrified me. I got to catch a retch spilling out my gut, remembering some mint creamy from a paper straw. you can guess.
SORRY JUICY FRUITS. I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO PLAY THIS PRANK ON MYSELF. you're so predictable.
points, you've got a spot. i've got a spot. (yet lunchtime lettuce in crevices, he won't acknowledge.) outside the vet science labs this morning, i saw spiders speckling a small part of sky. they tend to sit very still until rain drops bud bright below the abdomen, wrest web from branch and wire, prompt prompt opening of umbrellas.
Clytie, your neck cricks like ball-bearings scuttling down the gullet. in my soft spot near Boy Charlton, wall rubbed the boy's half-rucked sock; my ankles nipped pink dot dot dot to dot. I found a ten dollar note but missed the grey men in the
ag theatre, the cut cross hospital with shoes to the charming Cypriot, ripped from scented boughs (some promise, girl). I remembered last when we were doubled in gesture, looking towards blue windows bright over Market.
turn the pillow or put it out in the sun.
