LET’S BUILD A KITCHEN FIRST

I drew a straight, red line clean through my own name. It had longtime been listed there. The world in my fist no more.

We have arrived at a terminal moraine. Unprepared, even after ten years with a smart phone. No stile or kissing gate in sight.

 

You experiment with a brand-new look, apply fresh make-up. I pass your instruments, but do not know what they are called.

 

The view from the back window is almost the match (I say) of the one before. Even if it falls away to a ditch, not a river.

 

Splashdown! An echo of fallen debris. We pick out what is clean and useful. Our new infrastructure – durable as a glass hammer.

 

Why is the light on a timed circuit? Every five minutes, we are plunged into darkness, and one of us must switch it back on.

 

These constant interruptions. I am layering moussaka (made from leftovers) into a dish.             Is this a thing?         8 / 10 respondents say “yes”.

 

 iii. 2024

UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

the sky will be yellow. Regardless how you squint at it, tomorrow shrivels up

 

and men in branded, hi-vis tabards will have permission. Don’t ask what for, or why,

 

or seek to demonstrate some other way. There are new laws they’re not afraid to use.

 

Until further notice you will be crippled with bunions, grow deaf from ear wax.

 

Your teeth – on a diet of kitsch and fakery – will rot in your head and fall out.

 

As you wait you can watch the concrete crumble, while grievances congeal like old chip fat.

 

Until further notice you must guess your best line through the flooded potholes, trusting

 

your tread will ride the shameless lie beneath – the one untold. Do not be deflected,

 

none of this is your fault. Blame loafers by Prada, Timberland boots, the endless drone

 

of glib apology. Round the corner, a shadow cabinet of wax figures –

 

you will hear from them soon. Until further notice there may be no better choice.

Casual Keir reshuffles his wardrobe to take on Dishy Rishi

iii. 2024

 

Culture Matters

PLACEHOLDERS

[Ouray Meyers, Untitled]

 

under starry blue cold

a huddle

masks the rising light

three women look back

rebozos meld like a graceful flag                               a ziggurat

                                                                of bleached adobe

from ladder-linked terraces

                                                                distant men gaze out

 

in the middle ground

figures gather round a fire

meltwater

 

     ice-white boots                                     a foot tapping

 

 ii. 2024

WHAT NO-ONE PICKS WILL RUN TO SEED

Do not number me

among that bundle of stalks you plan to sweeten.

For I am sour

 

and I have known your candlelight in forcing sheds

where no-one looks.

My subterranean crown you once divided, the tangles split,

then by hand reburied under mulch.

From eyes displaced and blind, I grow again.

 

With such guile you claim control,

oblivious – so long as sugar’s cheap –

how year on year the overwinter cold diminishes.

Glossy and firm, my stems emerge, creaking.

Each beneath its toxic, heart-shaped parasol.

 

So, twist off these crimson limbs

formed in darkness,

but do not taste my tartness unalloyed.

 

ii. 2024