When the memories flood through her skin
like milk – when you pour it into porridge,
Her world melts.
Listening to X only after he’s dead
Capitalising on vintage Woolworths’ plastic bags
Remixing washed out lo-fi vinyls from Savers
I took aim, and released.
Mushroom clouds snapped apart;
a wafer-thin crunch,
a child treading on dry leaves,
dust gliding aimlessly against light.
Through cradle and gravel,
A truth to tell;
Mortal is lost,
Till last bell.
You didn’t answer my question though For my sins I live in Melbourne Where love is For all but Only A suggestion. Will These Failures grow Meaning through repetition ? I keep seeing your face-painted concern, when I Spill my drink almost falling between your Mismatched chairs. […]11 September 2018
At night, the streets—unlike any other city—are empty, but the repurposed Victorian gas-lights remain lit. They project onto the neo-classical architecture, the statues of Oxford circus, the garrets made of red brick, exaggerated angles/boundaries of shadow like the cabinet of Dr Caligari, or the fingers in F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, edging around the columns and overly decorated facades like vines.11 September 2018