(this is one of several slightly different drafts of a current piece I'm worrying at - the full-screen width lines btw are slightly longer than I would have them on the printed page )
Fugue
It is raining in that country. Cats and dogs. I can touch the curves in your voice on the pet-lovers line. The blood is everywhere I whisper. On your pillow you murmur Taste it - it is mine.
Carnivals of carnage on car-parks and streets.
*
I know the ways of kebabs. And the evil eyes of knives. There is weather outside, like history, demanding to be let in.
*
Sometimes, when the light shines through you, irradiating muscle, cartilage, the jump-leads of nerve, the flotations of offal, the gauze of skin, the dumb beat heart, and all the other addenda and etcetera and excreta
I see, as in a blinding flash , the Divine revelation made flesh.
Like a hundred megatons of halo.
*
That: this. Tvat tvam asi.
*
There are tyres in that country, and turning wheels. Animalcules are remarked of with suspicion. In shop dressers' windows, the police pose as models. Go nowhere without your private pocket calculator.
*
The rain is over. The all-clear has sounded.
Best
Dave
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