Thursday, 17 May 2012


I think of the threads that run through things. I see them recently, more and more, quick and scarlet and twisty. A slim girl in a turquoise leotard places one foot before the other and twitches a stick; the ribbon cuts through the day like a razor blade losing its footing on the surface of skin. My hands and feet are clumsy here and dust gathers faster on laminate flooring. I want a place to call my own.

My heart is sick of leaping and tripping like an Aintree racer with old knees. These words bounce in my head: wherever I hang my hat. But I have no hat and I have no hatrack and my hair lollops when I cycle through the airport, through the wind. Wherever I hang my head aint my home. I’ve got no more time for head hanging. I’m bored of it. I can’t believe I keep on talking about property.

Her stomach growls like a tigress and she shreds the paperwork to confetti and flings it to the skies.

The fat church bell rings and it sounds like pot-bellied pregnancy.

The cat says ka-ching and he can’t stop purring. I’m taking a lesson.

I don’t know what these words are but I was drunk and now I’m sober and I’m writing and that’s got to be enough.