The flared sun beats its skin-tight drum, and I think how arrogant it is to be alive. The blueberries are cultivating their beards at the ice-domed back of the refrigerator. Whose silence matters more — yours or mine?
We are still, and still breathing, but barely, as the wheat gathers her skirts by the stream. No prosody without blood or sweat, they say. None of us can survive this heat for long — yet the kitchen exists, and so we cook.
The tonic is laced with just enough gin — even as nonsense contains its backwash of truth, and so we are given what we always wanted, tearing through Christmas paper to get the gun we aim at classmates, flag unfurling its “Bang!”
Pull my finger whilst I talk into this banana. Smell my flower while I sever a plastic thumb. No circus can compete with the headless headlines. No freak-show so freaky as the one behind shut lids. One day they will bottle silence, and we will pay.
For now cool breezes exist for the price of taxes, for now the stream gathers up acceptable losses. I haven’t brought answers, just this deck of cards, so we pass through the space between tick-marks, mumbling through our hands a prayer for rain.
Sometimes I think I am just the way dishes get transported up and down stairs — like, having no legs, they invented me to go on these excursions. It makes me feel useful. Sometimes I think about how I make cutlery both dirty and clean, shuffling it from dishwasher to drawer to dining table, and then back again. Sometimes, I lick a spoon for effect. Perhaps each day for them is a season, the soapy rains, wintering in drawers. Sometimes, when I break a dish, I want to cry, but it’s more from shock than loss, more about me and my failure as a cup holder than about the cup and its untimely demise. Each day for them is an adventure, soaring in the questionably steady hands of a giant, clattering into the sink with undue panache. I’d like to feel like a giant. I was told (probably by myself) that one day I would. Yet here I am, savouring the chime of forks put back in their places. I wonder what they say about me, passing reviews of my work through the drawers and shelves they sleep in. Goodnight, dishes and cutlery. Dream well.
There is no more left to write about since I fell away from the world I don’t mean existentially — like a balloon, the globe escaped and drifted into the star-pricked dark or perhaps it was I, filled with the good air of hopefulness, tied tightly by a mother’s hand. Among the satellites, I was alone cosying up to space debris, cartons of fast-food left by astronauts, the Earth glowing gently beside me, wrapped like an invalid in cotton wool. I was told it would be dangerous but the air had already been used up in the ongoing political debate and the chill I found refreshing after the seas turned to bath water. I wouldn’t say the vacuum abhorred me, though I felt its persistent tug. Something is to be said for drifting after a lifetime spent believing in gravity. Sometimes I miss the small-scale things here with the Milky Way behind me, but even if I wanted to now, I could not pull it all back.
I don’t really want to do anything — not peep through the small doors at mice living out unimaginative lives or run a finger over the beaded skin of a rattling snake, coaxing venom.
In my mind I could be anywhere, and yet — out of the piles of driftwood, small crabs are fighting for their well-armoured lives, and so I stoop with my flaming stick and prod the wet sand, and it sizzles.
I can’t even be bothered to autocorrect. The wet lips of the python beckon from a tree, and isn’t it always that tree to blame, as though Knowledge itself corrupted us, rather than we ourselves through its mis-use.
The dice fall beneath the crucifix. A bet is a bet, and the spear goes in. The rules made up in childhood we follow like a sleepwalker throughout our life, for it is dangerous, they say, to wake us.