Wire Friday

combining a fox to unkindness. an un-breedable mix perhaps, an un-see-able thing? red-orange fur to a spiked emotion, an animal to a feeling? one that hunts and is hunted, the other that hunts, and is hunted. one for vermin and lazy prey, hunted on Sundays by bugled packs, hunting at night; the other hunting for lazy prey, anytime day or night, proving its might in soft-skin bruises that will leave and then carry it away, away from the unkind, focused on their baser state, of bitterness, where they hunker in fur

Thursday's This

lean to me. take. and again, she says, she's saying. the side of her neck pulses sound at my ear; the ocean rolls her chest's rise and falls at my cheek. I feel and hear nothing but this: all time movement of flesh. and my blindness that remains has become a brightness by her name. her name, pulsing light.

Wdnsdy One

He will take out that which can be was and could be: watch.... What can be stands tall as sheets of paper. Taller than that. Can cover a city with ease. Moves like a morning river moves in wind. Sways and you can hear its empty mention. What was is under, no-one clear exactly what. But all agree was was. Laid long in strands of black-tar line, grooved into pages a century long, Black-tar lines of was and quieter than silence mute. What could be is an uncle's artery, an afternoon's pooling, a stranger's gate, a list gone backwards, a cricket pitch (undone), a long sound shorter. Which he just took out.

Tuesday Filter

yes I huddle I hear myself say too. I huddle and I crouch. in this corner, me under this hood. me in this grey corner under this grey hood. I wear grey jeans, and I speak greyly. you might notice me walking passed - that grey area down there; the grey volume, hardly-moving, grey-humming. this corner and here me crouched; a crouched zone. grey, level-huddled and walked-passed you might recall. something grey, you might later remember. but I doubt it: grey is the color of forget that I wear. in this I forgotten zone. this I you walk passed.

Monday O(Emily

hold Emily. in light. in the glaring of it huddling her. holding Emily. hold Emily she's saying: whisperings through the glare; whispers of the glare; secrets from her mouth in there. hold me she's saying. don't go. feathers plume the light around her: a full-feathering of brightest light. she's huddled in there, her eyes are down. black smallish circles of just visible in the distance, above lips; just-theres in the milk-center of all the whiteness; a whiteness blondeness of hair falling over them, her eyes there, hiding, saying, look

Sunday undays

damn it. now read the next line. damn it. ha: annhialation. I can't spell it. again - annialation. still can't. annihalation. ah! ah! how to spell annhialation? - nope. but it's the best damn word of the day: I've not read, seen or thought or heard, even said it for months. months without annhialation..., so long I can't spell it. and here it is, back again, it's meaning leaks through me a veinery of satisfaction, little blasts of it fitting the fissures of me exploding out my holes, so there's this fizz about me a huzz-buzz-uzz, like heat-tremors slinking round shiny metal in summer. annihilate annihilation.

Saturday Err

best to leave this. best to leave this. best to leave what was this and, what this was. nothing fancy; nothing filmic; no narrative twist. just leave.