Blood and Spit
Who did you visit last weekend? Who did you talk with last night? What time did you arrive home last Saturday? When did you first see the sea? How did you come to be here today?
Let Me Love You
In the taxi on the way back, there are flecks of black ink from the scabbed tattoo on my forearm, like scattered punctuation spilt on unblotted paper. I look for the dog out of the window and find him repeated a hundred times, and fall asleep counting his hungry ribs.
Overgrowth
Vegetative chaos, mutilated brickwork and mortar order. Gravity pulls rubble from walls, water from drains, glass from broken windows, objects fall without warning. The exposed bricks crumble like properly cooked toast, construction workers swarm like surgeons, disassembling blocks of the city, a state of constant flux, transformation, death and rebirth.