Friday, 17 December 2010


We strolled through early streets, eyes icy with love. We’d deleted our names ... in the past ... in the past.

We wrote those names in exercise books & signed them “written by dead animals.” That was how we go to school.

In chains.

They dragged the abandoned body through late streets.

We were allowed up on the prison roof to spectate. Some stars drop down so low we can touch one another’s sex.

The sheets were soaking wet. I had seaweed in my mouth.

Private enterprise. She whispers you are drunk.

I ran through night streets, my footsteps echoing her name. In every window police stuff songbirds into their mouths & watch the news for poetry.

He was sublimating those gloves.

Afternoon street; a screamed heat.

No shade ... furniture on the pavement. The cars were dressed in fur coats, which was absurd.

I'll always carry a knife & a lie detector test & a glass harmonica. You’ll have wanted to know me then.

I swam door to door, selling the latest wonder: history as transparent meat. The two are almost children.

Each repeats the other’s name, wonderingly. It was cold in the room, & the sheets are not clean on.

She flew over to the window & looked out at the great city of ordure.

walkingintheceiling will return in 2011. Many thanks to all who have visited this place & who have read the texts here in 2010.

No comments:

Post a Comment