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Centre lines buzz out of the dark. A black futurity drips from highway to screen, into world, slick black on vinyl. Your words vomit on a phone, infect the intercom through a wet grain delay, mentioning some scan at a hospital. We won’t meet when things happen. Invoke the stats, watch late sun dapple concrete through trees. Drink in the solitude of the animal you claim to be. I challenge her to admit something. But there is nothing here to read and she looks back, contesting my gaze in that illegible dress.
Funny how secrets travel. You told me you will write me when conditions permit. I can’t admit how detached we always were or consent to what has happened. I made you a card from Malta: the one with skulls over a funerary urn in St John’s Co-Cathedral; a little death’s head grubbing St Ubaldesca’s arm as she converts water to wine in that restoration of Preti. But it went astray like the unanswered email concerning my father. I hesitate to mention it or cite the freedom your absence will afford. Grey tumours sprout all over your X-rays. Docile fasciae live authentically. You look damn good cumming over my wife’s photographs. You look rosy. There’s energy and declamatory fire, here.
You say I am deranged about you leaving, daring me to challenge your misprision. I do not, and what would be the point? Such Things of the Spirit are merely here to vampirize. But you get my desire for pre-emption and controlled, healthy, internalising.
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PsYChO hOLosUitE [zine] 