tightly coiled hair

The Turncoats of Windsor

          The shell of my lamp sounding like a bell! The smell of Satsuma giving my room something fresh. All the times you have called, collected and signalling together. The adjustable workings of my typewriter which is now placed in the perfect position. All of these things.

 I would peel oranges all day, slowly soaking up the tiny bursts that inflame my cat’s senses.She says: ‘he likes me’ with her hair tightly coiled in an old t-shirt of mine. The wetness of it

      does not reach into the pillows you so frequently despair of. Waking five years later to another prospective sleep – I tell all my friends about you.

The way we name dogs together, the latest being called ‘musket’. How is it I continue to fit through your kitchen window, there’s a carcass in the fridge tonight.

                I felt it wrong to disturb it. Please, when we are next in town, get yourself a key cut. A maintained blade will be sharp, a man on tip-toes watches me count the day’s take. You are mad to believe that there is no drama here, but thank you all the same. Your children have accompanied you for tea on a step in the front garden; it’s sunny at this time. I cannot hear anything from this new position. Accept my thanks also, a brown corduroy blazer to be worn on Election Day. I will find you those mirrors we spoke of. I liked the thing. I left the most beautiful woman to a party filled with adolescents. There has been sex in toilets. I should never have left her. My sweat falls in trustful swaths – my grey hairs extracted if they present themselves. My blood is still red, and redder – as I leap down and across your floor in the agony of an artery. Casey called for his mother and cried for a year. Palmer would take his hit and disappear upstairs to masturbate and potentially die alone – this was an obvious strain on all of us.

        The Turncoats of WIndsor

have formed an alliance. Around the base of the castle’s most obvious tower they have joined hands and refused to move for several minutes. They have flagrantly ignored the ‘please stay off the grass’ signs. Civilisation is ending where it begun. This sweat is faithful – at night I sometimes leave you.

         Three lovers – head down in the dirt. There’s some concentration – that is easy to see. If only we could love those that love us in return. This is a dedication. If you ignore the rules of this road, there will be no second chances. I have to be quiet. A lady sleeps. A lady is unwell. I have cleaned the kitchen, in preparation of her return. This is a form of love. It is physical – I started to show it, steam made its way into my eyes. The utensils can stab and maim. Please continue the sound is soothing: the plates crashing and services being chipped in your haste. Don’t worry – that mark was made one hundred years ago, that one there, fifty. Three years together for an afternoon spent 

crying in the arms of a blue Peugeot.

                                       You are beautiful – I should have said so.

 So what is the cost of twenty violins? Do you deceive me? The wood is obviously poor and the strings are nowhere to be seen, a few left dangerously upwards disguised on the floor. The deals are made – all week – untiring, constant, forever passing the terrible reserve and venturing up the abandoned stairs of an empty bait and tackle shop. I left a party in High Wycombe to return to my car park in the industrial estate near Lidl.

 Wet sandwiches became silent fisherman,

a woman giving out leaflets in a car park above sea-level. I believe in her likeness, I ignore my own instincts and go the way she proposes. Now faced with two people, screaming and waving needles – locking doors. Frantic needles loaded with disease – get comfortable down among the boils and piles of unwashed clothing.

 Take to the trapeze, spider! Where am I going to put you? Your web

glistening in the afternoon. The stacking of egg-boxes for still-life observation – cigar boxes for the placing of special things whilst on expedition somewhere. All the different scissors, their different uses but ultimately singular existence. My interests are merging, colliding violently in some lapse of time and recognition. No visions. No auditory hallucinations. No machinations of any kind. Only this moment, spent here, silently with you.