Friday, 13 July 2012

String theory

I can’t stop walking around with peeled-back eyes for street-discarded furniture, as if I’m not well aware that you don’t ever find the thing you know you’re looking for. So many curbs to implore. I run shopping lists like ticker tape declarations and marvel that the things I drag home are mine, mine, mine.

This sky is salmon pink. A summer shiver weaves up my spine and I’m convinced it’s not just a saying: right now, I could leap out of my skin. This girl is not yoked to her body; this summer unfolds like tiled puzzles turn over, turn over, flap flap flap.

I liked to show these streets to my friends and not have to find words to explain why London had become for me so many small compromises and grubby bandages wound tight around my feet. Tie a thread around a skin tag and let it quietly, painlessly, die. Nothing was terrible, just so many loose strings waiting to catch my missives.

Last night, I drank on my own in the anarchist bar and I watched the gas lanterns whump on as I walked past them, as my feet walked home.

When I'm here, I bend my knees and I hold my breath and I tighten so many ratchets, just to hear them crunch.

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