Spindle I am. Spindle I be. In the cogs of mediocrity. An insignificant sprocket in the belching machinery. I be. My days at the coal face are lost to me.
But at night…
I am transformed. I churn. I burn. I write. I am else.
I am a peace-pipe being smoked by purple dogs in the river of sin.
Nightly this calumet of catastrophic metamorphic wordism tap-taps his type to tell his tales, to scatter his stories out into the ether.
Shoveller of words, shifter of prose and sculptor of sentence and syntax I be.
I jest and I jape, I weep in my cape, and rattle through six cups of tea. Nightly.
night-night.
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17-12-08 / i blush at your glance / turn my head just a little / and swallow my heart 18-12-08 / when your man slew me / on a card in my pocket / he left your number 19-12-08 / i am breaking thr…
the prince sold his doves / for a cup of lime jelly / ate it in the sun
I still remember my first blood sacrifice. Dared by neighbourhood ruffians I was too eager to befriend, I found myself creeping under the muddy canvas flap of a crowded pavilion to spy on a travelling…
As the light fades over the sea, the night will erupt with music and I, sun-smacked, barefoot and reckless, will spill down onto the sand from the door of the playa casa, to dance. / They say the …
We bury Sally in her shiny black shoes with the decorative white bows on the side, but every time I look at them I can’t help wondering what happened to her scuffed red boots. I don’t remember…
Different morning, different car. Same legs.