Imagine you’re barefoot, and the floor is covered in CDs in their cases that you’ve collected ever since your heart broke last. Bossanova, Pink Robots, the Bridget Jones soundtrack;
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summer is sinking her teeth into my bones, like I am a rotten fruit in the mandibles of a bug. my peach fuzz skin lies broken open on the sand, the sea breeze slowly cooling my insides.
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Why is it that the pen on paper feels so much more intimate when I know it is going to you?
Each stroke becomes my hand in yours, yours in my hair
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I sound the horn and declare war on time.
This marching arrow will march no more
with a bullet in its knee and another in its jaw.
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Humans have windows with shutters and drapes;
Hinged spheres of glossed glass tinted many colours.
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