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motionthis is an essayon the shared body;a brief emission;some kind of fragrance,or gathering. this isillumination, here,moulded into the shape ofthe sky.ice cannot be sustainedand every angelhas ash in her pocket.i have often wondered,do dead menrefuse to speakill of the living?time. time. time.we follow the sunsnaking across the horizon.if you put your earto my mouth, you mighthear the sound of the sea -- because within the nightthere are horses, andwithin the horses there isa lonely star.
pulseand it is like fingertipstracing the line of my spineand how it buckles and bucklesand twists over and over on itselfand this is just a dreamit is a dreamvividityvivaciousnessvivisectionimagineherea moment within a momentbetween momentsand howhow lightthe sky breathes.pause. pulse.because it is only evera contest to be smallest,to wither, to shrinkbetween atoms andecho myselfthe peeling paint isa symbol. i will grow.i will engulf this world.
things that begin slowlythe grassthe movement of cloudsrainfallthe realisation that something is missingflightforgetfulnessdreaminga second lifehaunted eyeswater of crystallisationthe making of a timepiecedaythe love of hatethe closing of an ecosystemholes in the sky.
shythere is nothing i hearquite as loud as i hear youand forgive me if i am quiet;it is only that my heart beatslouder than my head, and i cannot bearto stop listening to the wayyour body breathes.
Samhis pen scratches on paper. 'toast' he writes. he chuckles. 'he's toast' he says. i stare at him. he looks away. i realise who i am is burning in my eyes, so i shut her off quickly. the tension he had not even realised he was holding slides off his shoulders and he laughs again. 'toast!' he cries, and saunters off, and i am left with an empty bench and a newspaper bearing a mugshot of the man he does not know as my brother. i stroke one finger across his face. 'toast' i whisper, and i do not weep. instead, the sky weeps for me, sending grey down to blur the ink of his face. i throw the newspaper down and suddenly i am running through the streets, desperate with hunger for a wide open space where i can scream.my brother, the murderer.my brother, sat in his cell, listening to the wood workshop next door where his prison-mates are hammering the nails into his coffin.my brother, the murderer.sam.have you never thought it strange that when they speak of criminals on the news, or in the
semaphorethere isnot enough tohold, here -this redness isa signalit isi told youit issemaphorea breakwatera burningsomething small, and movingsomething conscioussomething beginning over and overan end.we curvewe move upwardswe do not bow
spring dreamingskeins of muscle unravellingcarving a city out of bonebut listen, persephone -this dream is not my own.
green eyesand jealousy is the in-between, thethis-is-not-a-second-chance he gave you,and the way he staggers sometimes andslips down another notch, until he isheld up only by the hand you slipbeneath his skin.