2. star without atmosphere
Dark archipelago sensed from inside, such expansive poverty! Wind you can never get a fix on, veering from one impossible dimension to another. I drift past a boutique selling emotions, ‘The Tears of Things’, am splashed by a lorry where the mopped up leakages from memory slop about in blue plastic barrels. A sneer draws a line in the air, dares me to cross. The magazine’s probably empty, but I make a show of taking the safety off. Everyone gets lost. The best subscribe to the soundtrack while the worst scavenge for missing photographs among the middens of their native transit camps. I believe I can hear and smell the ocean. In the thundery weather of always being hidden in plain sight I perfect the assassin’s flit. I’ll take what I want, riddle the glee, slip behind the sentences like rain.
© Ger Killeen
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