“the Sun has been most reluctant to journey” she said
adding that “when they were young they travelled everywhere together”
she was here to enlist my help
(as i’ve counselled many an astral body)

(and kissed many an astral body)

i gave the standard guarantees
lies flying with angel velocity
and she left in a blister of oily light
petals n all disappeared

immediately i got the Sun on the phone
and told him to watch out for former friends urging change
the Sun chuckled at my worry
did i not know the Sun would never leave the great love it had found?

i hung up the phone, reassured a little but worried more
the Sun talks of great love but so does everyone when they are in love
recent conversations flickered back to me
the Sun complaining about this and that, most worryingly

i briefly considered hiding the Sun’s keys to hinder any getaway
dreamed of a mad short-term kidnapping
plotted a Vegas wedding and a fake pregnancy if required
drew a big circle and little circle on paper surrounded by a broken heart

a flash of light struck me then
for a moment i thought the Sun had come to take back Tupperware
but it was a bright idea instead
the Tupperware gets to stay

immediately i rang Joe and told him of the Sun’s sister
described curves and eyes and delicate earlobes
it was the ankle bracelet that closed the deal
and he said he’d call her tonight

never have i hoped so much for a phone conversation to go well
for laughing and flirting and whispers and connection
then the Sun’s sister can stay, tied by golden string to Joe
and we can all go out,
bright light, petals, oil and shimmering love

while fucking

in that slippery slide some brain cells are making links

between what you smell and how you feel

and forevermore a certain perfume will get you hard

she’s fucking your brains out and you accidentally think about banking

and then pow! there go some new links

and suddenly you love banking and you’re a fucking banker

and you never intended to be a banker but here you are banking

years pass with all the fucking adding new ideas

and some stick real well and change who you get to fuck

and one day, one day you fuck an art girl you meet at some gallery show

she is pierced and has a tattoo and fucks those who buy her art

and loves absurd things and so she decided to fuck a banker

and there, on her mattress atop another mattress (an art bed)

under a painting, in a small room made golden by her homemade lightshade

she fucks you and you think about art and creativity and letting it go

and banking slides away and the old you comes back

for a moment the old you is there

nourished by cunt, fucked into life, for a while

and then carried out into the world, out into your car

and you see yourself, your suit, your haircut, your fucking banker house

your fucking banker wife, your fucking banker children

yourfuckingbankerfriends, yourfuckingbankerlife

FUCK

so what i’m saying is

it’s probably not a good idea to think about banking

if you’re fucking

unless you want to be a banker

some pointless lunch conversation

and then i was at home

heart thudding

sweating

holding a metal garden spike in my hand

feet aching

i’d been running

my shirt was torn

blood on my knuckles

dirt under my fingertips

i thought

thank you!

psychotic break

i’ll take it!

i need something

to spice

up

the days

his form crumbled as she pulled back the sheet

but he was mostly perfect, fine lines and hair and patterned pyjamas

transcribed in shades of grey and white

the sheets were slightly crisp

signs of some intense heat

she hadn’t felt a thing

but then

for years in bed

with him

she hadn’t felt a thing

she looked at ash face

and saw it peaceful

mouth half-open

probably snoring when it happened

she was a little delighted

and that delight came

with a little sorrow

she was delighted he had surprised her

for the first time in years

she was sorry he had to combust

to do it

Crying before, after

I’ll disobey you

Just three more

Day before deportation

Only me? Liar

We’ll start again

First slap warning

Pillow over face

A cajoled yes

More than cousins

My sweetest friend

A little bite

Focus on pain

Cut myself today

Nothing changed afterwards

Toothpaste oddly erotic

Be my Huckleberry

Need your DNA

Hot room shiver

Mime girl screamed

Sock puppet threesome

She packs meat

Furry girl purred

Iron Man fantasy

Sobbing won’t help

Stupid biological imperative

I want candy

Only lab coat

Bound her, left

Willing to learn

Scratch my itch

You’re my cowboy

Let forever be

Intent to misbehave

Come break me

Many objects vibrate

Someone is crying

Until it’s light

Area vagina inspector

Swedish, Japanese, next?

Poetry gets results

Dressed as zombie

Sudden supermarket slap

We both pretended

Dark eyes, hair

Disobedient girl bitten

Writers get fucked

Brat me, huh

Future fuck guaranteed

Ties for tying

Bite, spank, repeat

Whispered brand names

Play my game

Oh man, Latina

Asleep inside you

Deliberate condom break

Mouthful hot tea

Nightclub, here Puss

Don’t tell Dad

Hippiegirls don’t shave

Drunken accidental blur

Cough was clench

Bound my Asian

Reckless teenage babysitter

Wrong number bootycall

Alone in morgue

Grave, shovel, darkness

Intelligence my aphrodisiac

Stopwatch camera cucumber

Little death again

Lie to me

Keep it secret

Giggly Jewish girl

Collar and leash

***

A Twitter game that is also a good writing exercise.

My favourite cul de sac

Turning tired, drinks and music

Hey, my queen size bed!

I don’t believe in you

Not that he doesn’t support nor trust

But that my very existence is at question

Well clearly I’m here I said but nope

Comeback: it’s all hallucination

A tumour perhaps, brain injury dementia

I briefly considered a smack in the mouth

Perhaps breaking his shit

Decided I couldn’t be fucked

Turned to the unicorn and said let’s go

A moment of clarity at the shop: the more kids you have the fatter you get. I told Tracey and she cracked up and then we kept making faces at each other each time a heifer herded through a guzzle of children.

School holidays finishing soon and new year starting and the parents swarm through trying to get the next generation of diet doctors and home facial specialists and coffee monkeys and vacant drones and bullies and sluts and harpies and witches and wizards interested and invested in paper and folders and pens and erasers. The pre-school kids stumble around, mostly vacant and generally unaware what they are doing here. Something is going on and it apparently is exciting and will be fun but then they turn up in a place with paper and they learn their first lesson: adults lie.

The older kids slump around, contributing only when their mom cracks and threatens to get the ugliest books and binders we sell (aisle 2, a vinyl-plastic the colour of unwashed everything). Some of the kids are deep into the generational warfare and so they shrug and fire off another don’t-care missile, secure in their dominion over mom and dad. They know the only rule that matters: the winner is the one who cares the least.

Who cares the least out of us?

Tracey is like me: no kids, no mortgage, no car and no debt. No debt because no bank will open the door to flakes who have had more jobs at 22 than they have fingers and toes. Her mom and dad give her cash every now and then and so she could probably leave this job. She cares less than me.

Shirt stain isn’t like me: no kids, no mortgage, has a car that looks like it was designed for a bubble or Pac Man to drive, and maybe debt. I have no idea if he has debt because I let his words and ideas flow through me down an ignorant pipe that is manned by no one. Every time he shuffles over, jiggling in that early thirties way that equals heart attack by fifty-five, I click off the mental recording gear and turn into a mirror. He is a workaholic who argues with his fiancé about staying at work. How he got her we can’t determine. No one has ever met her and there are rumours she is just a paid service that calls the office to make it look like he has human parts. He cares less than me.

Five assorted stock-kids who drift and change every few months when they get sick of Stain “cracking down” on paperclip shelf order or sugar control or discover he puts the work clock forward in the morning and then back after lunch to squeeze another ten minutes out of everyone unpaid. They care less than me.

Kara the payroll troll, Queen of the Time Cards, Watcher of the Bathroom Breaks, Grand High Whatever of Pointless Rules, sitting in her little cave, pulling levers, pressing buttons, convinced she is keeping the world running but unaware the levers connect to nothing; the buttons are dead. She is married and made hard by the pressure of children I guess. Or she could have been that way her entire life. I wonder sometimes if she too has a moment of clarity and the young Kara wakes up to glimpse the new world. Obsessed and possessed and distressed and -essed in every way … she cares less than me.

Razor razor razor out right now with half my pay looking for something to brighten the day, hip hip hooray, ok? It’s Poetry – oh Noetry and I can’t visit the website that comes from because we sold the laptop two week ago. I circle his name again with love hearts and at the same time decide I care the most at work because without work I wouldn’t have the money and without the money Razor would have to steal more and then he might get caught and then I’d never see him again.

So I care the most. More than Razor, more than Stain, more than Kara, more than stock-kids, more than Tracey. More than – Razor is back.

***

Fragment slice speck part moment bit – words arranged with punctuation.