Thursday, 8 August 2013


Pitch black avenue concealed by bright sunlight. 
They had never seen an autopsy before. 
A window that would open only with extreme force.
He had travelled purposelessly with the express purpose of forgetting his unborn sister. 
There’s no such thing as things. 
Follow my moves, said the mother, soon you’ll be a dancer. 
Man wearing shades, two inch scar on his right cheek. 
They all make promises, it doesn’t mean being in a coma you grow peacock feathers in your leisure time. 
I love that young woman, that young rascal said. 
She took speed to get through her exams. 
The orchestra’s silence is mimesis, simple, pure, inconsolable. 
Say goodbye to your Dad. 
Lain there, expression of being surprise caught; mouth open as if to say everything’s nothings. 
That’s where it gets prettiest. 
Thousands of shoes & a bucket & spade. 
She & my limbs were lovers, pearl grey dawnscape caressing our sighs. 
It’s a great film. 
Nothing much happens.
My grandmother dead, her voice long gone, continuing to communicate in spidery letters. 
Wait your (re)turn.
In the future children feed sugar mice sugar mice. 
I don’t want to touch you ever, never, again. 
So very shy.

The image is of  Kiki de Montparnasse - Surrealist writer, 1920′s artist’s model, dancer, & beauty. 

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