I lie as a spoon lies: in the dark

as they school you

out of the can

of bean-letters, says Ginsburg, beams

as barriers from your centre

my tights, chest in anxiety of earring shopping

at and

& Other Stories

who make fictions

that they are fiction and fuel smiles

in the window

her eye looks at

you or choosing


saliva out of desire

as you, the messiah,

tell me the cross

is absolute

but a bun too custard


ooze again

peeled too for till it seemed

down water falling in

Eliasson’s sculpture,



and suspense

to soul (post)

not nothing


but bought that dress

so that’s fine

shop me plastic

wrappers rap me into futility baby

and transparency

and transience

throw a pebble

at the window at Westminster as if it’s



to a shop glass

where i see my many transparent selves

and fail to worship them

in one tree

who walks down the street plucked taken tucked under a belt a hand is there it’s not narrative it’s neurosis or narcissism of looking in the face of reality of temperature when touch and taste increase like speed tucked speech tucked

under the rug like your flapping fish whose scales make expensive carpets look more white and dramatic

and candles are decorative yet reminders of death (memorials, or just markers of time passing)

I bite lips or dim eyelids and the din of the heater in wooden background lights me up

fill her up, get him another drink

teeth need to be scraped away

to their core spit in the sink - spin to the wardrobe speak to the hollow tube and glue it to an ear, where hair

listens and makes links, trains run parallel but airplanes go to hell where fire moves further and further into

the imaginary since it will be all the earth because of links, tucks and burps. Fire licks and so do we