Wednesday, 14 September 2011

don't ask

Sunday, 8 February 2009


Sycamore. Sick, sick, sycamore.
Surrendering yourself to winter sleaze.
A frosty tongue laps up every last leaf
Licks you bare
Exposed to all yes, but oh! so exposed to one

Over the road s
he'd watch
Shielded with front room double glaze
That was sometimes veiled with muslin

She sometimes wore a bathrobe
Or a Nantucket sweatshirt tucked into size 16 jeans
And a Swatch
Or a necklace
Black pumps
Always dressed with desire

Such icy pleasure.
You sycamore
And she wore envy
And sadness
Year after year after year
Until she
no more

Thursday, 5 February 2009

The Gazette, march the 8th 2007

Once upon a time, the sun was as white as snow when Jane xxx from that street did not manage to avoid what she didn't. She could not avoid the failure of her marriage with Jake xxx either. She is survived by no kids. The authority does not suspect any conjugal wrong-doings nor black kids from the other street. Jane was not sick in the head at the time of death. No neighbors cried at the funeral, that I think looked very suspicious but all in all, everybody looked so slick in white and, all in all, she-her husband jake said, blinking from the flashes-you see has had a fulfilled and fulfilling bad life. All at the Gazette, join in "Sorrow" (to the tune of ) but still wonder if the streets will miss her.

Who's Jake?

I strained some soup through my sieve of a brain and the holes got clogged with veg. I've got an appointment with the doctor on Tuesday and the drycleaning's been dropped off. My mind tastes of carrot.

Wednesday, 28 January 2009

Message from Jake

There are 3 things he told me to do before he left... i can remember 2 of them

- call doctor
- take clothes to drycleaner

but for the fucking life of me, i can't remember the third. And this is my subconscious speaking because as it stands, I've forgotten that there even was a third. The front of my mind is elsewhere. It's in between the strands of the carpet, foraging through a forest of grey wool. My fingers plough along. Inch by inch, row by row - growing a mound of fluff beneath my nails. It's like winter in Canada. I'm one of them truck-owners who every October, fits the front of my Ford with a handsome shovel and drives around the snow-bound streets, clearing the way for my fellow citizens. And I don't even do it for money. Nah, I'm a good neighbourly neighbour. And I wear a brimmed John Deer cap and a puffy vest and you could pick me up and drop me in any number of Hollywood films cause damn, I look the part. You know my wife died last year? Yep. Tragic car accident. And we never had children so now I'm all alone in the world. Me and my plough. And my neighbours, who'll occasionally invite me in for a cup of coffee or a beer and chance to watch the game.