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Perfume from a dress twisted into wreaths of vodka sweat..

Week End by Danny Bird Wiped from the white board of memory, storage: seven stock items or less. Breakfast, a late morning after thought; gruff fleets of lorries potholing my head’s grey tarmacadam.

The opposite of articulation.

Hot gravel gluing my eyelids, the arid Landscape at the roof of my mouth; la recherché du temps perdu limned in last night’s lost blur of hours; perfume from a dress twisted into wreaths of vodka sweat; strobe lights strapped to the backs of my eyes and the last line of Rike’s old torso; fumbling to the thrum of a Friday morning’s afternoon mass exodus.

Next week neverendingly, always next week next week next.

The currency of canteen conversation, a canticle of stirred small talk.

Soon be another one over and done with-

wishing wells our windows away.

Sweet Dimensions.

Beats flow through the crowd as a circuit, pulsing beneath gilded illuminations; each note a palpitation. We are one.