Tuesday, 15 February 2011


You are a ghost that I walk through on a Boxing Day derive. In the electrical cluster-fuck of your supernatural event, everything I own has run out of battery. The pigeons have won the battle for the balcony and with it so too falls the flat. Their shit constellates the asphalt, the plastic owl and the snow damaged fag ends.

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How do you grow something larger than its own boundaries? Do you knock down and rebuild with the economics of space at the back of your mind, a chimney coming down in your solar plexus?

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There is a gully in the Plantation woods, that snakes it’s way around the edge of a sometimes lake. The lake is empty in December, but in the spring months it’s full and is frogspawn and rotted mulch, birch frosted with moss. O Children of Heartsease, these are you woods, let me dream of you at the edges, weapons in hand crafted from mattress springs and winter winded spikes, jutting out like your bony elbows.

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 There is sunset on the co-op. Sunset on the strip lights. Sunset on the boys, cycling on one bike. There is sunset on the single eye of the CCTV as it follows me, down Holmes Close, like a sleepwalker until I vanish out of sight.

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