Textling #87

Next door declares its augmentation with screeching saws and thumping hammer blows. Builders’ lore did not prepare me! I turn a feral thing, snarling as drills roar out their diatribes. Dumpsites for thoughts are chock-a-block, and other senses in decline. Each pore an ear now, each orifice. We dream of dams and flight and being drunk on words. 

Headphones harangue us for an ode: best love for Bose, I sing. But fortitude is thin as fickle, smokes fags behind the neighbours’ shed. She thinks of sourcing hearing out. Someone fetch her!

Textling #86

Had a run-in with time and lay in the car, stiff as a bell’s tongue, and just as mute. Pain in aspiration stage – still hoping I’ll hurl myself against walls, eager to chime.

After a blurry episode give looking another go. Burgess Park is not itself right now: tiny, lifeless, the green of grass and foliage moulded in the same garish tones. Clouds, birds, a plastic sun, tacked on a smudge of blue. We too minuscule and stuck mid-move in a scale-model some architect should have improved.

Bed, at long last. Limbs scattered like mikado sticks; palms so painful they seem large as cities. Must have crashed across the continent, one hand throbbing in Rejkavik, the other limp in the Aegean Sea. Each crumple in my sheet a mountain ridge or carved out canyon, nuzzling the gash of me. A chore to breathe.

Days shivering in sleety weather zones. I pine for hot. PEMalaise me not!