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.