When I bent down to give her a kiss,
she quacked
Then exploded with loud report
into hundreds of pieces.
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
When I bent down to give her a kiss,
she quacked
Then exploded with loud report
into hundreds of pieces.
Cutting my hair with the meat scissors,
being told off for not using a hairdresser,
explaining that if I don’t change something
often I will do something worse
these are the tears that we cannot shed
as we comment on the beauty of the glen and
how wonderful it must have been to live in such a place.
the cake is made of Walthamstow
a dense and glutinous Walthamstow
we are going to make Walthamstow
a Titanic success for Walthamstow
Get some hens
dig up the garden
sow and plant.
sharp as a thorn.
I held on
to whatever
it had been
at the start of existence,
a stem cell
That cow can’t walk. She’s all lame. I won’t touch her hooves.
giddy with the scent
we pipette the peppermint
into the mixture
a cheeping beak breaks forth
scenting balmy air:
swirls of hyacinths waft
in warm, hour-less days –
the slow inflections of the wind
where rivers run like scars.
The moon hangs quietly
in the blackened air, halved and emptied, decaying since dusk
Here lie abandoned gyro crusts and Bundt cake crumbs.
Your fingers shine with olive oil grease
waking
at midnight
to piss
on the sand dunes
and the sky overhead
like a badly
scratched frying pan.