I sit back, then lie

on the recliner, as

 

the fourth sunset

over the neighbour’s

 

roof blazes then

haloes; two sentinel

 

chimneys parallel-oversee

what I can’t. Fire

 

in the universe, and

weeping windows,

 

the end of the life

in the heart of warmed

 

tiles.

 

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I say nothing.

But this is impossible

the guard takes off his shoes

I won’t confess

to what is impossible.

this is fiction.

I did the impossible everything

and more. Take this tangerine,

he shouts. I do.

My palm is empty blaze.

I cannot eat. Who is the killer god?

The pip.

Everybody is suffering

whether they know it or not;

everyone is happy

whether they care to see this

or not;

I don’t know where most people are

today; the map is full

of colourful

holes. Sing – go on –

weep – go on.

Dear madam/sir,

I regret to inform you

that due to rising costs

we are discontinuing

both heaven and hell.A

basic limbo service

will continue for now.

The White Ghost Has Blood on Its Hands Again.

The inconvenience

(an unfortunate) cessation

of such major

polarities in your imaginative

(he had a vast imagination,

a paltry mind’)

life will be offset

by a new album release from

Leslie Hardy, an American musician

who has played for a number of Seattle-

based bands, but principally as organist for

Murder City Devils.

She was briefly bassist/

backup singer for Hole in late 1992. Hardy left Seattle and returned home to Detroit, where she has worked as a real estate agent[ and played in local band Pigeon.

I hope etc etc.

 

without any warning, we’re free –

this aesthetic is lost on me –

 

we are not included in year-end statistics

for surf, blood or even affection.

 

the lacy women in the Chinese picture

escape from either end of the scripture.

 

I am in need of nothing now; plain

as the final ox-herder selfie; take again.

 

she is so beautiful; I text her, she doesn’t respond;

I shall go alone, paint the duck, the frozen pond.

‘I’m not proud of that period in the very least. Bus stops. Giant no-entry signs. Curry vomit. Being unworthy of visions. Suicide in Lewisham. The ordinariness of Bingley, of Reading: places. All a prelude of course. But let’s not think of that. Who can really use dismembered hands, a grand piano, and the last minute scare? As birds fly, so hands play; Chinese proverb. The strangulation scene. The bookshelves, groping; she was surely sullied.’

When I’m hungry

I might think of

You, your intrinsic tang,

Texture. This is cooking.

 

When I’m hungry

(I ate you last year)

This is a

detached

debauchery.

 

Hunger for you

Is hunger for me.