They have always loved one another cheek to cheek, their golden heads leaned together and conspiring smiles on young, smooth lips. Arm in arm they walk, hip to hip they stand.
One cannot love one’s reflection though it is there, and if one should hate it, there it still remains.
When I was eighteen the NKVD came for us
And I was eighteen
and the floorboards had been in want of polishing
and Father, gone for two weeks
this is not madness
this is such fear
All that we do to each other.
If there had been anything more unnerving and disquieting, she thought that it was the tiny world inside each thin glass-and-plastic fairy-light on the christmas tree.
It had seemed like forever, like a lonely […]
There is something fleeting in this moment, beloved.
The touch of your lips speaks of brevity, of
and phrases unfinished.
(goodnight, ladies, goodnight, fair ladies, goodnight, goodnight)
There, here, is rough-hewn wood, polished
with Danish wax, with elbows
There is the warmth of strangers,
here are afghans over tired couches.
Snow falls, dirty, humane, outside, lingers
on cold windowsills.
There is a sort of art amongst the violence of it, the mud and the bodies; as if someone had decided one day to embrace surrealism whilst armed with all the misfortunes of a troubled past, perhaps too many Gothic […]
He sat down at the writing-desk one morning, and found, much to his dismay, that nothing came to mind.
The day was fine; the smooth sunlight slotted through the windowpanes onto clean floorboards, illuminating […]
There is a gap between us now
like lovers across a river that becomes, gradually, a sea
as you bend from me and I from […]
At boarding school, Jeremy used to stand with his back against the door of the wardrobe.
It had been a heavy, French armoire, the sort that seemed likely to fall over at any given moment- and so he and his […]
A dark-blue affair, speckled
with white flowers
Rough cloth made smooth by wear, tired seams
stains hidden conveniently
Here we are
Here is the kitchen
The dust-motes flicker, illuminated
There was lint in the spaces, the air thick with the smell of car-polish and a new, industrial sort of scent as if the trunk were the head, as if the car were an old dog, remembering past all else what it had been like to have been young, when the children were still scolded [...]
There is monochromatic colour everywhere, and he no longer remembers which way to turn. It’s not quite jaywalking; with his backpack and the last vestiges of tan over his cheekbones the city doesn’t yet suit him, too many countries of sheep and Sunday afternoons, battered cardboard signs that spell ‘Invercargil’ with one l to save [...]
The halls whispered- ‘though still-unravished bride of quietness- with the curtains drawn back from the windows and the grounds outside, damp English weather.
Little more than veined torsos with sightless eyes and graceful shoulders, sexless from cheek to navel with their hair in curls, calcified.
The train station seems to freeze.
Black shapes make up umbrellas and passersby in dark coats, the metallic sexless dictation of gate numbers and times sounds overhead.
You smile, a mess of laugh-lines and chapped lips.
This is something that is happening right now. As we speak your time is trickling away from you in a way that the younger do not understand and the older do not care to remember, and you will look back to find this time both more difficult and easier than anything else you will ever [...]
Striped pajamas, the feet cut off the footie-bottoms even as she makes her way down the polished corridor with her fingernails like tiny shells, the miniscule motions of a eight-month-old scrap of humanity.
It’s a lonely sort of life, cracks in the walls, monochromatic strips like foreign spy films at 10pm.
Her fingernails are perfect, the polish nevertheless chipped as she flips cards worn soft at the edges.
Her face had been daubed with paint in red and white like lead, so that she dared not smile lest the thick wrinkles of it betray an age she did not feel. The sceptre was smooth in her hand, her throne shaped- not that stylised, flat thing, but a real heart, obscene in its furrows [...]
He had found himself one day at the train station for no other reason than that he was walking past it, hat pulled down against the mocking Bedfordshire wind. He had sat, for the longest time, on the grimy seats painted over crudely in green, recalling the ghost-vestiges of smoke; a disappearing window; a slender, [...]
Da-dum dum schhh!
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