Saturday, 23 November 2013


The wolf lurking in a long tunnel with drips falling from the ceiling. The wolf howling and pulling thorns from his paws. The animals of the forests and plains refusing to help because the wolf has bad PR, the wolf has a reputation for teeth. I feel bad for the wolf but what do I know? My PR is not the greatest either. We all have reputations we carry in the sacks yoked to our carts, and none of us are ever quite ready to spill the apples.

Or, then again, perhaps some are. How did those voles get so damn cute? How did that girl get to glow like a reclining moon, a moon that has never shone upon criminal proceedings? In the wilderness you can hear the insects, thick as bean soup in your ears. In the desert you can hear your own heartbeat, you can listen to the blood pushed round your body, listen to the creep of life-liquid. You can catch the accent of your veins (oh blood, oh thick guttural Rs, hello).

In the morning, I am so much phlegm and teeth mould. I am kittens deep inside the sack. I try to make time for the small, perfect rituals: screw the silver coffee pot, open the gas, hear the hiss, strike a match. Trust in a blue flame and the alchemy of ground brown beans. Trust in the fingers in the crick of my neck. In the morning, I am less than Jane. Skittish and clickery. The internet, the internet, the internet. The taste of curdled spilt things. The smell of my seeping self.

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