LET’S BUILD A KITCHEN FIRST
I drew a straight, red line clean through my own name. It had longtime been listed there. The world in my fist no more.
We have arrived at a terminal moraine. Unprepared, even after ten years with a smart phone. No stile or kissing gate in sight.
You experiment with a brand-new look, apply fresh make-up. I pass your instruments, but do not know what they are called.
The view from the back window is almost the match (I say) of the one before. Even if it falls away to a ditch, not a river.
Splashdown! An echo of fallen debris. We pick out what is clean and useful. Our new infrastructure – durable as a glass hammer.
Why is the light on a timed circuit? Every five minutes, we are plunged into darkness, and one of us must switch it back on.
These constant interruptions. I am layering moussaka (made from leftovers) into a dish. Is this a thing? 8 / 10 respondents say “yes”.
iii. 2024
UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
the sky will be yellow. Regardless how you squint at it, tomorrow shrivels up
and men in branded, hi-vis tabards will have permission. Don’t ask what for, or why,
or seek to demonstrate some other way. There are new laws they’re not afraid to use.
Until further notice you will be crippled with bunions, grow deaf from ear wax.
Your teeth – on a diet of kitsch and fakery – will rot in your head and fall out.
As you wait you can watch the concrete crumble, while grievances congeal like old chip fat.
Until further notice you must guess your best line through the flooded potholes, trusting
your tread will ride the shameless lie beneath – the one untold. Do not be deflected,
none of this is your fault. Blame loafers by Prada, Timberland boots, the endless drone
of glib apology. Round the corner, a shadow cabinet of wax figures –
you will hear from them soon. Until further notice there may be no better choice.
PLACEHOLDERS
[Ouray Meyers, Untitled]
under starry blue cold
a huddle
three women look back
rebozos meld like a graceful flag a ziggurat
of bleached adobe
from ladder-linked terraces
distant men gaze out
in the middle ground
figures gather round a fire
meltwater
ice-white boots a foot tapping
ii. 2024
WHAT NO-ONE PICKS WILL RUN TO SEED
Do not number me
among that bundle of stalks you plan to sweeten.
For I am sour
and I have known your candlelight in forcing sheds
where no-one looks.
My subterranean crown you once divided, the tangles split,
then by hand reburied under mulch.
From eyes displaced and blind, I grow again.
With such guile you claim control,
oblivious – so long as sugar’s cheap –
how year on year the overwinter cold diminishes.
Glossy and firm, my stems emerge, creaking.
Each beneath its toxic, heart-shaped parasol.
So, twist off these crimson limbs
formed in darkness,
but do not taste my tartness unalloyed.
ii. 2024