My hair is greying and my skin pulls up into powder light dunes. My arms are sprayed onto my torso, white brushed with sodium brick and chain link rejection, where I crawl face down on the carpet like a pork-chop droplet. I can taste the nylon fibres; smooth weave expanse of flat bell dome. My brain in the fairy-hump waggling like a snail beside my thigh drawn out and glistening with green leaves that have dried in the day’s casserole stew. There are no editors and there is nothing but candles, candles and leaves; leaves folded round me like skin, leaves hammered flat like iron, leaves sucking my heart and leaves blown white like fossil cough clouds. I am a plastic hunter, watching the needles squiggle and burp. I generate expectations in the key at exit. I know much; a weekend guy; living for that Friday last moment back home back between the scrag rail watching the wire pit wriggle past in its long segmented belly. Guiding me home. Green slap above the D-pond ripples blown by the wind of my movement. This is the halfway point; the view is almost beautiful from here. The treepers become more burlesque, capping up over the buzzing lids to conceal the slate’s glint. The sun arrived on Tuesday, streaming down the walls like bong beads on overhead wires. The light travels in our wake. we are moving into the next season; a gradual blurring through the calendar to a time of scissoring and freshly cut tobacco smoked. Outside white bells ring in the camomile. The sweet smell of cityless longing that tears me apart like frozen paper; I need this new season. I need its space, its warmth, its breathing residence. Past the hole; leafy rendering conceals its depth where beetles run like black ball water over my polythene tongue. I capture heat and taste like wool. Sleep on fire. Air-horns in the fibre, crossed out with bars and empty stations on the run. I am the nettle in your eyes, staring out at buttercup constellations from the face of a broken sleep.
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