from 'Studies In Starlight'

4. Sidereal time is mixed up with the rest of the time

    In defiance of collection there are the random pickings and discardings. Unlike cliché, this is not an idyll. On Sundays it stinks of burning twigs. On Mondays it stinks of Sundays. The rationale of my week is wreckage and not destruction? Dream on, dream on the input. The consequences are very unfunny: phantom limb, exact change, torture. They neither sow nor reap, neither tendon nor recipe. I strain from it, from out of the frying pan and into the soup of the symptom. It takes ages. It takes rocks. It takes me back.

© Ger Killeen