Your Skeleton Sent Me Roses
Grey whiskers stuck to the fridge with bird spittle. Burnt hair and a whistling kettle. Pale frogs caper in the quicklime. My orchard shines with an unlikely nimbus tonight.
Words escape me like fleeing nuns, exiled in the air outside my mouth. Quivering bullets of phlegm that half-heartedly chase their own hollow meaning. Lungs blossom unexpectedly, a ghastly montage of red mutton flowers that rot drunkenly in the sullen mailbox of reason.
Hair flash! "It’s a magnesium mimic breakfast," she whispered, as yet another packet of Belief Powder ignited. Emissaries of The Dim God arrived in broken chariots. Panic swept through the auditorium like the sugar-dogs of Old Outer Japan. All the horses boiled. It was a fifty grandfather overload.
Topic Eleven details the high cost of living abroad. This includes morals, scruples, ideals, political beliefs, abstract Cartesian diseases, etc. Their representatives froze the cathedral’s interior with wind-mist, mother, and withdrew like molten shadows, their sense of hearing now heightened to an almost unbearable level. Zero tile crash. We retreat as a solemn waterfall of crows tumble from the ceiling on stilts of shrivelled silence.
If I had my time again I’m sure I would love you far more fiercely - I’d burn both your brothers, sink their ships and raise you from the grave on swollen tongues of ochre-coloured light! I’d whip the statues and eat their emeralds! – but the years have capsized me, left me limbless and adrift on the other side of my life. Beakless birds chew on mould-speckled library books and tailors wade through the shallows in search of needles.
Your voice is a walkie-talkie now, a railway station I once stood in. There’s pigeon-shit on the newsstand, plasterboard instead of rust. Your skeleton used to send me roses, but I never even noticed.