Guttering flames of scarlet dress Whip an eastern silk wind, to Crackle along terrace thighs.
All night She has come to dance On my mind balustrade.
Metronome heel clicks Conversation of fingers Mute the singers on the street, After glow of nuclear sun Blisters feathered wings of moon: Tenderly she catches them in Tousled ribbon hair, Fall and rise of her tango breath.
Wine on my lips vined by Her strawberry pout, Twisting hips of swirling waltz(er) Uncork the wettest fruit. ...
At the point where harbour wall curved onto sand, we found seagull chicks. Dead. Alison wanted to preserve them. She had seen a BBC documentary. Rows of dead things in jars.
“God is dead,” she said, repeating a slice of the narrative. “Myself is mutilation and separation.”
Under a furnace God-less blue sky, we placed the cadavers into a Woolworths’ plastic bag and carried them home. They were cramped into an old jar, which Alison filled with methylated spirits. The chemicals gnawed at their raw skin and released a flotilla of pinkish shavings. These fizzed to the...