kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

I would like to see again the cowherd with his long face and high, cool eyes – crescent and crisp as fruit slices on a china platter.

If he lay his hand upon his cheek, and held his neck oddly sideways, and closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that his hand was someone else’s, and five seconds would be lost in bliss, until the carpeted ghost of a breath whisked his nape into a hopeful buzz, and whose rebuff electrified his into slapping his limp arm off his face.

A virile and convulsive shadow behind me scrabbled, to the ground, as it mauled up the steps and rutted away from the brutal roman sun, spitting and wracked under its own puissance.

If a cockroach were huge it would be a majesty, all hull and armour and wise bristled eyes and a moustache –– but because it is small, and slides into its home the Dark, i shall continue my shrieking.

Yesterday i took off all my clothes with all the windows gaping, and felt high and precious the way i hadn’t for a long time.

I cannot resign myself to smallness, and as a result am doomed to insanity.

Now i know you – the dogma has faded from your face and you fall into my lap, a nude flap of flesh colour.

I am jealous of some convict who murdered three men and a baby in their sleep last year and earned the death penalty for it. I am envious of his calm, gentle gait as he ascends the abattoir of the court, furiously i try to capture every detail of his blessed, radiant face as he slips a noose over his neck and does this tie for the last time. I should like to be the life draining out of those jerking legs, i should like to be pouring out in his panicky urine, gushing against hope from his sterile prison undergarments, and i should like to have the same last breath escape from out my lips, under the clean, benevolent eye of the law.

The city is attached to my boots and i am hovering into the sky, bearing it upwards to imaginary heavens where i belong.