Sunday, 25 November 2012


    He spreads the handkerchief on the ground. It appears luminous in the gloom. Stilled, our hands like this on our hearts. When you start laughing it gets echoed and muffled impossibly. The same time. "Shut the fuck up" I'm licking the walls, I thought - the haul glints on the white handkerchief. I'm shut. My heart, over expands.
 "She wasn't dead tho?"
 "Shut the fuck up"
In the dark it's hard to know if it's this mouth, or that.
    The upstairs room: the girl jumps rhythmically, bites at the bread. We watch her from the rug, a fire in the grate. The bread has a sweet resistance. Hollow lifts the skirts and his legs shine. The girl stops jumping, but the mattress takes a while to catch on. She pulls the bread thoughtfully, her sorry teeth. Our eyes together in the same place, cos he glows so, there by the fire.

Saturday, 24 November 2012


This white flesh:"You speak perfect English" Not I. I can't speak at all. This flesh is - I'm rubbing his hands between mine. He laughs. Her voice " You should wear your gloves, mały , have you lost them?" "No - I" Between my thighs, his hands. He says its colder. My legs, colder than his hand. I shiver. Not on the outside. In here it's warm. Join me? I don't know where it is, or anything. I say: "I don't know anything" We laugh, we look at our hands. I am walking down the street - a long street - the town I lived in then. Somebody calls to me from an open window. I wave. The person wants me to come inside. I shake my head "I can't - I have to ..." I point vaguely down the street. There are two sheets of acid tight against my stomach. Probably I have to take them somewhere. It's not relevant. When I'm licking his stomach. It doesn't taste of anything much. He puts a hand on my head, warmer now. The motion is - off - I don't know - like beating time with a finger. Following some rhythm that isn't there. It's irritating, a polka - their voices somewhere. Nothing much. Bread, maybe - sourdough.
 M: No, it's forbidden to smoke here.
I'm bored.
M: (whispered) Calm down. If I do it properly he'll panic and leave.
I should make him another initial, right? Having the same one is just confusing. When I ask him if he wants some coke - not him - the one face down on the bed - he raises his head and looks at me so blankly. His eyes are too pale, a dog for pulling sledges might have them. The expression is as if you offered one of your pack a blanket by the fire.
D: What the fuck are you doing? I sleep out here on the warm snow. 
Puts the - maybe it's some kind of plate? I don't know - into his line of vision and he unclouds. "I don't (briefly confused again) No (smiles) Thank you!"
The Siberian man is standing some distance from his pack of dogs. He throws them meat from this distance. He throws them meat, from a distance there in the dark. The snow is a warm cushion beneath them - if there's no snow, or the snow is too iced over, then the dogs will die. If the man stands too close with the meat, then he will die. When the dogs are fed, we break into the hospital shed and drink all the surgical alcohol we can find. I mean, they do - it's not like I'm there.
 M: Do we need to take any more?
Other M: (nods)
I feel weird with a plate of cocaine in my hand. Looking out over the water.