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"shards of glass are one thing - but a marble, there's something to feed your dragons on."

Thursday

Our Chimney (Our Emasculated House)

Mum tore the chimney off our house. It had been steely, erect, unsinkable in the tile-waves, locks of heat crimping its sides every Christmas after we lit the fire to pretend it was winter while Mum blanched in her memories and we sweated silently over unopened gifts. Smoggy curls, almost bad breath, snaked from its nostrils on Sundays when her swampy sighs extinguished us all, and rolling black smoke, freckled with sparks, spumed heavenward when we made the fire too big and sprinkled on secret handfuls of flour – like little witch doctors repulsing disease. But it’s just a hole now.

Sunday














Stair

Wednesday

Orange

If the world really were an orange; the sun a mouth burning for refreshment; that cosmic palate would find this fruit under-ripe and swollen with sugarless juices, full of pips – an eternity of pips – as membranous and thin skinned as four-day-old soup and querulous in the teeth. But, ultimately, great for digestion.

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