Dinnerless: dead, buried & heaven-sent. Not even a vichyssoise to moisten them lips. That dry hack’ll speckle Peter – robbed to pay Paul, wrath metastasising.
Top of the world, ma, spitting phlegm at a fraudster, watching sleight-of-hand hands twist a cross into a crucifix, with eyes so sharp they was pulled out of a cryotank.
Know what separt this place of bright orange isogram from hel below? ‘Bout four weeks for guts to twist with boredom, for that dirty dark secret to rise like bile: it was nothing more than a shared lament at our broken humanity.
Call it: the evidence of faith is the evidence of things not seen or half seen, through cigarette smoke or rage or the slow wind of a river that sputters into infinity: black and red, diagonal lined.
Written on Tuesday, 6 January 2015