broad smile, fingers saying peace. it’s not obscene it’s through a camera. it makes for unq uiet living, the borders kissing feet and white rice pushed between teeth. pink coat envel oping –the skin and bones of her beaming at the camera hand held out unending even as th e lens pans and the remote h o o t s soft like a comet hitting the wires that vine the walls. there is dust and it is ionising. we have a carpet. she has a name we do not know. ou tside is a holy fascism; youth a pistol unloaded and how it fires. mother-tongue–canary li ght cupping the sound. we are sand bags with limbs, with quartz ribs and wax eyes. where were you last friday night, where were you not who were you not, the kevlar tar-gleami ng. where does she sleep what shoes does she wear do the borders kiss her feet tender can the checkpoints sing lullabies can she sing lullabies does she break bread as i do, do the drones hum like bee s? am i morbid? the news gives her no name. here is an advertiseme nt – buy these shoes buy these buy a lif e any life. do the drones hum like bees? you there in the kevlar tar-gleaming, am i morbid? sometimes i walk home house key in my knuckles br eathing small and wishing i had worn trous ers and becoming what i hope is subtle. am i m orbid? i am wearing shoes. the remote h o o t s soft like a comet like crying. i heard that c4 smells like almonds and burns with a canary light. there is a girl down the road in the supermarket in a pink coat wanting to hold more oranges than she can. buy a life a ny life. i am wearing shoes. in my flinching head she is eating rice with one hand, in the fr ame. broad smile, fingers tree-branch forked saying peace, peace. it’s through a camera, it’s not obscene. it makes for unquiet living, the borders kissing feet and white rice push ed between teeth. pink coat enveloping – the skin and bones of her beam. and when older she would chew too loud, would never learn the words to god save the queen, would no t particularly like me. and it would be decent for her to hear real birds sing, to hold as many oranges as she can, to grow old as the demographers promise i will.
Featured image via Humanosphere (CC)
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