Feb
02
Stump
Yesterday
I met your assassin
We exchanged greetings at my front door
deadlocked behind me as usual
bathroom window bolted shut
Well, who’s to know?

Yesterday
I met your assassin
We exchanged greetings at my front door
deadlocked behind me as usual
bathroom window bolted shut
Well, who’s to know?
I remember now
Why
I die every Winter
like the libraries torched
in a scorched earth ideology of ‘The New’
erasing all archaeology - manmade ‘his story’ – from Samarkand to Tehran
trying to impose the illusion of nothingness
nothing to see, hear
nothing to see here
anymore
Our legs spindly spider-light
trace the snaking centreline of her constantly outstretched and extending limbs
Slightly touching on nerve-endings and the earth surfaces of her arching and lazy body