Friday, September 6

Untitled (& Unrelated) Series

Helen’s Bra

She was positioned over me. We were kissing. I had spent so long removing all of her March clothes, wondering if there was a body under there after all. Her bra was nothing special, as she had an indifference towards lingerie—a fact that, to this day, causes me great concern. I put my right hand behind her back. ‘This is a very difficult bra to undo.’ It took me a second. She was impressed. I really wished to see her without a bra. They hung down and stroked my chest. I put one of them in my mouth and had never tasted anything like it.


Fog ( AGAIN )

The fog hangs around in gangs over the landscape, and passing through it on my Thursday morning transport I regard it with fascination and an eerie interest. The fog steals my morning view. Near its thin edges the silhouette of a tree is revealed, faintly, and the tree is dead and upon the tips of its branches are the silhouettes of birds but the birds are alive, yet as still as dead. Quickly the fog recedes; there stand cows, bent over with their thick necks, grazing, chewing forward into the fog.


Not In Front Of Her

She was pretty. She spoke to my parents like she was in the final round of a beauty pageant. Some people go their whole lives putting up a front and they don’t care who they give it to. Californian skin in Californian trainers at the bottom of long Californian legs. I was outside in the garden when they came out so that he could have a joint. He smoked stuff that never smelled quite right, thick, sticky, fragrant, expertly staining walls and carpets, but never like it came from soil. She was there for company. They sat down. He let out a fart; loud; twice; a couple of punctures in the black bin-liner of night. She reproachfully cried his name and turned away.



What a word! it could be, perhaps, the name of a prog-rock song; a phantom that haunts an Italian island; a disease of the fingernails; a quick-drying waterproof elastic substance that is often used in bathrooms and toilets. Or maybe something my mother would say when she was drunk and I was playing with the neighbour’s dog—‘Don’t do that! you’ll sclera!’ I read the word in a book that was very violent and beautifully written. Sweat was dripping down my nose and onto the crotch of my trousers. I looked up the word in the dictionary on my phone. I rolled my bottom lip over my top lip, squinted my eyes and nodded my head as if to say to the entire carriage—‘Of course, Very interesting.’

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