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| 'Viennese Angel' (12 Feb 2025) |
I leave the dining table nervous, half-drunk coffee and a bitten tongue, forked and knived. You - burnt corners of toast and a teaspoon facing down. You woke up before me and placed the tablemats askew, by habit I straightened them. Are we competing for the last sigh?
No, we won’t eat together. The crumbs would hitch a ride from my lips to your beard (cross-transfer, cross-contamination). You’d ask me to speak and it would feel like TV static - huge textures, metric electrocution. Put it more simply, I envy your elocution. Mine’s always the slurred lullaby.
I run through semantic fields, jump the fence. I should grind the medicine to a fine powder, you should pass my words through the sieve again. It’s ineffective, a half-baked thought experiment, too easy to exist by sticking to the edges.
The atoms will collapse if I let this course run through. I’ll dry my hands on the sleeves of opposite arms and push you away. Please, you’ll hate me and you’ll understand. I’ll be led to believe it’s traumatic, like clockwork.
A pile of sand forms. It's not time, rather the ants’ burden:
🐜…………………….::#::…(you can measure your echo in the space between my navel and knees)
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