instructions

wrap thighs around trunk, find nook to get foothold in, and push up.

the fact of being someone someone wants to touch

the fact travelled across savannahs, shrunk a little through the deserts, got wet in a couple of jungles, nearly drowned in a famous sea, glided over snow peaked (just) mountains, and found itself, like a fog, slowly crossing the channel, approaching the white cliffs and then on in went, avoiding knife crime, to rest on my shoulder, in my ear like a tiny, little, bug.

the little box

three peppermint pastilles. fourteen and a half ticket stubs, two numbered sequentially. a couple of rolled up fags. four shark teeth, and one whalebone. the remains of a ribbon, frayed and discoloured. a doll's shiny glassy eye. a roadmap. a fork. an almost illegible letter. serviettes, neatly folded up around a flattened rose. an unused promo sachet, anti-ageing cream. a used band-aid in a clear plastic bag. seven mismatched keys in a keyring initialled "o" or "c" or "q". a perfumed heart-shaped soap bar. a piece of broken glass. a mirror. a dried up fountain pen.

cabbie wisdom

you gotta get your kicks where you can
you don't seem to be the kind to have any problem with that
that is true
(not really)

post-apocalyptic

the sun glares on empty streets clouds gone the sea has shrunk birds scream in flight scared of heights people don't belong. in. this. landscape. in. this. landscape. songs ricochet across empty park lots full of wooden heads no one knows why. the city breathes heavily. hot. dry. dazzling.