It's Still Life

I. A Micro-narrative I was raised with a horror of talking about myself. Raised with my mother’s obsession for organisation, and so I’d never admit that I had no plan, that I’d invented myself, start to end. And secretly I wanted to try everything: given a chance I’d surf a coursing mudslide because I knew…

Whoever Said You Can’t Fly It’s late afternoon and the air feels electric. Metaphysical weather. Smells like thin snow, and for some reason, I’m thinking Icarus, and our Christmas escape to Bogotá, and boxes of Cracker Jacks and a toy surprise.     Poetic Asides Day 4: Who(so)ever (_____)

Red Dust and Cotton We were in sheer cotton all day, ‘was even too hot for a sun umbrella, a perishing feel-real-heat, and at midday we stood in the shade of the Taj Mahal, in a triangular splodge, dampening down the red dust.     Poetic Asides Day 3: Triangles

3s We’re rolling dice, and it’s coming up 3s. Oddness coming up everywhere, and there’s a skull on my doctor’s desk, 2 eyes and 1 nose, again holes in oddly 3s. And I saw a child, a ghost in a shroud, 2 rounds for eyes and one for its mouth. Is it an omen, these…

I. Walking with Dreams You hold your shoes in your hand, and climb the stairs for bed. I tell you, rest before you sleep, because when dreams chase country roads, your feet will tire before you start, and even though this is a dream, and you know this is true, you cannot disguise bone weariness…

Trap if my prose speak in tongues, are my words disguised, and is a trap a trap when sprung without a mouse, or a teacup when it’s filled with milk, or a clock without two hands, and is it dawn if you can’t sleep, and is it fear without a fright. and is your disguise…