A fish swims up stamen. The sound of tills closing, beeping and other supermarket noises. Cold January - is there any other kind? Maybe in some other's vision.
‘We’ve all got it. Well, at least a little.’ says Harry.
A child practices guitar scales. Overcast - in the woods mud pushes past the ankle line. Hazel blossom and alder catkins. A fringe tucked behind ears. To overcome pine trees one must become a cleaning wipe. An oak tree. Out of season mushrooms - scarlet elf cup, wood ear.
‘Well me and Garry have anyway.’ he continues.
Pause. To be so in love with suicide that it rots the brain beyond a songbird’s call - he thinks to himself. Bankers graft themselves into boats. Mulling it over. Who is gonna paint? In the womb they take notes. Chuck chuck. Perceiving and interpreting colour spectrums and graphs they draw up blueprints of the damned. A mulberry bush.
still sky two blackbirds pass into pastry
‘He’s a good manager.’ To be in love with suicide as a tropical fruit - papaya, kiwi, pineapple etc. Spending the winter identifying the shapes of the leaves of those trees. Sun bricks hover over the night as being throws coins.
‘Yeah.’ Tommy agrees.
‘Is he Irish?’ asks Harry.
‘Not sure. He sounds foreign though.’
To be nothing but wishing lost inside a bottle of sun lotion.
‘Wonder where they got him from.’
‘Not sure.’
Another pause. Reduced racks and the whimsy of weight gain and subsequent loss.
‘They bring ‘em in from anywhere and everywhere.’ says Tommy.
rain - the marble asks for a sneeze
The night has become a soup god. Tommy is sat at home. Harry is also sat at home. Highways, nebulas and freeways drenched in pastels roll between them. Heads are a whirl and swirl. The miso concrete to a parked car. Lost in the back pain of president Kennedy. Lost in the fragments of Cobain’s skull.
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