Hungry
Potatoes also have eyes
but we are so greedy
scattering
ripe
fruit
succulent
jostling
strange things will happen here
The Book of Longing
the shrouded taint of shadow memories
saturated whispers
her beetle-green semi-iridescence
blackening like a discarded banana-skin
You only get one chance
You were never really here
I should have known
so and now I must find the ruined place framing
haunting prose hunting
spice and sweets
splicing the muscular if
residual swerve of honeyed grief
curved and carved seething cinnamon-vanilla
flakes of memory chipping away and chipping away
like wood shavings
pining
the sense of something unfinished
needling
tick tock
tick tock
from where I stand it’s clear to me
moonbone severance
the purplepink greyblacks
honouring the quivering signature
of your dark edged mantra
waiting and wanting
just a minute
the cling
the scrape
last stop—eternity
Broken
listen
I still crave it every day but it’s killing me
the silent half-formed slipslide
this poisoned vine
these whisper-bone fragments
cascade
swell
drowning incandescent fortnights
but the silksigh room is still empty
like seeing a ghost.
Almost.