Monday, 30 April 2012

30: Ice skates

Tomorrow we’ll fire up the wurlitzer and hold a parade for the spiderplant children.

We’ll watch them wave like the benevolent octopi they are, floating in the tank of sparkling water we’ve hocked to the back of our lorry.

The townspeople will whoop and declare the spider king their champion, tie their youngest daughters to a maypole and offer her skin for fur.

They say you need a woman to tread your heart like grapes, they say you need your blood to ooze between her toes before you’ll holler and hurl.

I know, I circle all my candyflosses endlessly and dive like a love-drunk kingfisher again and again into the same cherry blossom.

I can’t help it.

My fingers are lycra ice-skaters in the same skirted troop. They’ll keep on with their cantilever until an unsheathed blade finds the jugular.

Then, the fingers find the keys and a rocket of confetti erupts. This time it is ripe, ripe cherries.

You will stand, you'll be silent, and you'll watch the cascade.

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