dreamstates; notebook fragments

A few simple fictive ephemera for a Wednesday afternoon, in dreamstate & repose.


He grey-scale grinned my way, and all the colour drained from everything forever. And he spoke in somatosensory song – Kumarian wisdom – betraying all things, and all sound was rent as in a vacuum away forever. And he looked back into my clay-state – where colour was the inheritance of sound was the inheritance of sight – and stole everything.

She speaks Greek to me on Merlot afternoons; she looks opiate-eyed at me – she is always within me – & I am always in her hands. An offer – genuine? – to listen to my wurds – I self-eulogise to her about my death of late, of how I’m barren. If only she would give me seed to grow! But, oh, I am broken. We remain aural enamorate. And she cannot know it. Or will not.

There is a road that goes past my little third-storey flat. If you turn out and walk right you come to some buildings, and that’s where I work. They sit together, grey-faced and stoic, all looking inwards at the central plaza, at each other, like they’re discussing something very slowly. And we sit inside them, discussing things very slowly. And there are shops, where you may buy foods and coats and things. If you turn out and walk left from my flat, I don’t know what you’ll meet. I’ve never turned left. The road just goes on, like some far-reaching arm, domed in petalled frescos and lined with branching wooden columns. It’s too dark at the end to see what’s actually there. It might be nothing. It might be a mirror-image of the buildings back down the other way. It might be an empty void. Or it might just have some shops or something.

Mrs Malkin, where are your children?
She looked behind the fireside, and underneath the bakelite. Mrs Malkin, where are your children tonight? Are they crawling ‘round in ringlets in the bath, locked inside some dreary cubbyhole or trapped behind the hearth? Wait, Mrs Malkin, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your children. Who exactly are you looking for?

Little Porch Drama
There is a new note laid out for me on my front step each morning. Sometimes it’s biro, sometimes it’s lipstick. They sit there silently, like some little adage that only you and I can understand.  We have never even met, but already I know that I’ll only disappoint you. You tell me things like “cut off your legs” – I don’t think I’ll ever be the person that you want me to be.

In that photo – where the snow sits like ashen flowers in your hair – and your tremendous smile that spreads from the very origin of you – and your teeth, rowed, like sharks’, in perfection, with that single off-ivory incisor – in that photo – and your eyes half-closed, to contain all that inconceivable everything – in that photo, you look so young. Or I look – so old.




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