spy by the window watches the scrutiny like a crawling ache, explores his tormented identity. a strict regime punishes his misdemeanours, many old symptoms, signs of sickness recurring to infinity; this isn’t easy. unrecovered memories working like instincts like bitter anger rising inside him, lighted gasoline poured down the throat of a tomb fear rises like fever in his throat, his body growing frailer and frailer, whimpering in frustrated imagination making idiot faces at her. who put that idea into your head. ease up on the accelerator, apply the brake. trances too profound linger on to torment him. are you sure about this there’s no going back. clutches his head in both hands and moans


she imagines him as an empty beach, wish fulfilment fantasy flickering on shades of silver grey. he keeps watching, manuscripts filled with incident, written fictions slithering inside her body potentially brutal nightmare shadows on frosted glass partitions. wandering through expansive bedrooms, sitting on a white bed, slowly lifting a half dozen scarlet roses loaded with pollen smelling of the heat of a summer’s day. she’s lying leaking thick rivulets of dark fluid. a dress underwear silk stockings, a writhing shimmering thread. beautiful girl alone on a moonlit night, sob in the silence, faint perfume of emotion. what will she say to the ones she leaves behind, you see I have kept your secret safe. she has never offered to handle him. she dreams of his touch, eyes tongue leather and plastic toys


a little more pale, differently coloured ages. drumming of booted feet until his skull aches many kinds of evil and the pallor of sickness. deep remembering of forgotten dreams behind the glass. accent lilting his name, his features fade cast aside white fur in the rarities room on the far side of the square. carrion birds stand alone revising the darkened forms, the little heart pounds then stops as his tears fall, a language no longer spoken sweating out fever swelling like a maggot never going to love like he loves her. on the last ledge of the precipice, at the head of his bed praying bloodsoaked prayers, seeming to dissolve in the long silence, a disturbance to the night sky. checking the gleam of the knife blade, the world behind him becoming nothingness. two bridges two paths both unsafe going nowhere


cold lips bless a frostbite kiss beautiful in monochrome, almost liquid shades of silver. blue eyes of a lonely night watch winking at the moon mirror a strange extension of himself, afraid to speak as she kills a story, vile rumours. this is about sex and rot and saltwater and sea graves, running aground on the sandbar, dead eyes reflecting light beneath blood-matted hair opaque with tangled ripples and the slap of foul water inside a warm haven. mouth clamped tightly across his, tongue scarred and oddly metallic in the calling of the mercurial voice. pressure of teeth and flesh tenderness and the chink of glass and sweat copper smell of cabernet


endless staircase going nowhere, skin is paperthin refusing to decay. congealed, dropped petals, hot stickiness of summer nights minimise his libido. soft cotton rips. salty and hot aborted bitter kiss draws blood and he is braced on tiptoe, retreating triangles distended with flesh ripe for bursting painstakingly spreading no shadow. lying naked conjured a mirage, brow-gold fleshy fatness, slick liquid heat, infinitely malleable eruption of violence moist against his skin. through turrets of clouds white rimmed eyes blotting out everything, lost in the heart of zeal. run to me. clear and luminous latex veil glistening hide, feline nakedness, velvet napped flesh still deeper bloom baleful splendour, his lady of annihilation. gilded moon silver fire stars inky silken livery spicy odour orchid rose frangipane. thicken to ice and melt in the mouth to woman slime sensation


brown summer belly licking into ecstasy dots of fire gleaming yearning animates new manifestations. unscarred womb bleeds nectar seeking ripe polished skin. in the act of dying she is lost struggling, beautiful isn’t she, an exile, a collector of skins. whiteface and gold monsoon downpour, blue bottle dusk and geranium honeysuckle jasmine flowers. weak moonlight at the bottom of the bed find membranes fragile but still whole, flutelike whimper an immaculate revenge flooding back a splinter of hesitation. why pretend. every membrane wants to let him in. knife thrust, unbroken egg, blood-filled hole, traces of a kill on snow-sheets, a cracked mirror. no presence in massacre. a freezing howl, dazzling hurt-pain. irreparable gulf without despair without revulsion


begin to spin her desire, shaved sex, half-eaten peach, exquisite plant-part labial dance erupts. nicotine-stained fingers imprint on gleaming skin. he dies in me he is buried in me, sex death and starshine and whirling brain meaningless existence, her body a forest of febrile hands clutching slithering into a grimace of a smile. nothing’s natural examining her sensations, mindful ecstasy, scarlet splashes of unendurable pain-pleasure and gorged heavy flesh seized with the conviction of coming within creamy stickiness of the scanty mess he’s left inside her. keep it secret blood-smeared and bloated, hold me tightly. arms legs wrapped around her, life flickering with a million diamond shimmers of light. are these imaginary