Causes botulism in ducks.
That’s what the sign says, anyway.
Didn’t stop the man on the bike.
Tear the bread, throw the bread.
Feeding ducks bread is what he does.
It’s something that he’s always done.
Perhaps he hasn’t seen the sign?
I’ll enlighten the man.
“Hello mate, have you seen the sign?
It says; Don’t kill us with kindness.
That bread causes botulism..”
“I don’t give a fuck, mate.”
This is what he said to my face.
I had to ask myself something;
If the man didn’t give a fuck,
Why was he feeding them?
A mooring perhaps, and held..
Entangled, knotted like rope
Gypsy lines on your palm find mine
Fingers as roots seek water
Knuckle and joints weave until whole
Just this now
Just one spidery smooth lock remains
As blocks of tower topple
And new worlds grow.
The breezy bush distracted us
Made her break her apple green stare
And look away to the pavement
To the beat of my feet
Crisp salad leaves crunched my wet fork
Whilst the check of the tablecloth
Engulfed the wine bottle in squares
And the metred beat froze
Time is no match for a redhead
Her red rhythm leaps like scared deer
While time ticks regular like rain
And the beat carries on
A clink of glass returns her stare
Less appley than before, more pear
Bright sunshine helps her pierce my mind
I drop the beat this time
Lover’s lunches in clockwork fights
Both restricted and protected
By fellow diners who listen
To our out of time beat
The door gave way on the third kick. I wished that it hadn’t as soon as the smell hit me. The notion of what a smell is will never fully explain what entered my nostrils that day. She had been there for three days, windows shut, in the dry Sri Lankan heat.
Her position was familiar, sitting in her favourite chair, facing the television. Her shorts and T-shirt seemed almost inappropriate for the situation. She was there, but gone.
The arc of blood up the wall behind her was brown now. A death rainbow, and at the end of it there was no pot of gold. The air was me, and I was the air. I breathed her decomposition.
I spent years thinking that she had been murdered. The Colombo murder squad hinted at the boys from the beach. They insinuated that she was a prostitute, that one thing had lead to another. She was just another victim of just another brutal robbery in a poor country. Now I’m not so sure. Something happens to you when you discover a dead body. There is an interaction, even though one of you is no longer there. She told me something that day. It has taken me a long time to hear it but I hear it now.
I hear her pain, her disappointment, her release of expectation. I hear her dreams slowly disappearing as her heart hardened.
I hear her locking the door from the inside.
This pounded meat
Bruise-veined and scarred
Caged in red white bone
I butcher it to feel
Scar it to remember
Untwist its bloody tendered weave
And tear it once again
Pain or perfection?
I raise a bottle to the pain.
The dull ache tightly clamps the rusty
Blunt blade of connection.
Hold fast if you like.
But the slow pull will always win.
Serrated edges create their own crimson exit
A dizzy agony of goodbye frees the mottled sword.
I remember now, how to stitch.
How to mend.
How to prepare this scarred pounded meat
For another cook.
is blue. Or black, maybe.
It’s a dark colour and it opens with a knock.
Footsteps, a pause, then the click.
That’s the order of it.
I like the pause.
I know she’s looking at me through the small lens.
Just for a second.
The well oiled brass deadbolt prepares for its surrender.
The smooth click of defeat.
Unlocked, unbolted, unnecessary.
The lock is a lock once more.
Now with two in its charge.