I saw you small on a map of the world
I was spinning, chewing chunks from my tongue
Thought that you belonged to me
Though that made no sense
I ran my finger over your little bumps
spent time trying to say your name
I started singing pulverise me
to anyone that would listen
and you stayed small
hidden, on a map of the world
Kit
She can hear the click of high heels
the crack of a badly wired pylon
probably immune to spilt spirits
spilt larger and cigarettes
She can smell her boss’s aftershave
his chest sweat and fungal feet
now able to tune out the row of banter
the laughter and endless same-songs
But what is it she can see?
the flickering light of several screens
a forward shadow from the man behind her
or all the drunks; their mouths snarling
then smiling
ii) Playing Dead (Hospůdky Na Hradbách, Vyšehrad)
sniffing
dogs prowl round the tables he doesn’t notice
she suddenly goes soft every move she makes ignored
with tears for changing skies beside a tower of empty glasses digging
behind the mess of clouds the bitter moon and sky
turning Prussian again ‘this city is just like…
a bat silhouette flies … something from a movie’
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Dust
I want to bleed dust like a moth
Surely it is something like dust that shimmers under crumpled wings and crooked legs
I want to bleed dust through cracks of dried skin
I want to become so infected they don’t know what to do with me
Listen to the tick of the white plastic clock
there is no time for moisture
surely you agree - there is no time for moisture!
No longer listen to a thing even if he ever did
No longer search
No longer move toward the long luminous bars that click, cough and flicker when they’re turned on
Are you turned on?
Are you searching?
Are you searching hard enough and do you remember what it is –
Go on then! What is it?
Do you want dry skin and crumpled legs?
Do you want a light-bulb life of back and forth?
Go on then
Listen to the plastic clock
and clean the moth brain from your fingertips.
