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.


  1. Ah, things to read. Like a lot of pieces here I'm missing context and detail (I guess that's intentional), yet I'm drawn in, eager to piece things together and assign meaning, jump to conclusions even, anything just to identify.

    It's charismatic, what you write.

  2. i couldn't have said it better than Ben

    charismatic, indeed