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.