—Summer, 2008 (London, England)
And the sun come up over the camp, a lump
rising in the throat.
The brook was cooking its small fish.
We pressed our feet to the cold-holding stones
like your grandmother fervently kissing her rosary.
It was Sunday.
You climbed on the waste pipe. We heard dirty water
like Chinese whispers
tell secrets to the depth of its python dark. It was holy.
Suddenly a bird! An Icarus!
Your lips open, a stone
split apart by the heat.
Take my hand and run!
to The Wasting Space.
Green places got their own gravity.
It’s this that I miss the most.
Trees filter time as well as light. We’d make our slow
descent into the half-past five
like deep-sea divers,
I remember drinking the smell of it.
Fox- freighted, piss-
pungent, illicit like a cinema.
A scrum of stunted pines
behind the rec ground,
a reminder that once we’d been wild:
far as the tarmaced car park.
Far as the concrete overpass.
Far as the prison
and the road pointing South.
You come to me, Pig Thief.
Your hands flashed small
against the navy of my blazer.
Dowry of shit-fucks!
heaping the air between us.
This is The Wasting Space. We will tell stories.
The sudden shelter of the trees
leaves a ringing in our ears,
an echo like the hollow crash of surf.
I slit your hand like the skin of an apple.
I slit your hand like the belly of a fish.
Mix with me, Pig Thief,
my blood’s not bad but it’s hungry.
It’s drinking the hole in your hand.
Sometimes there’s an autumn
of hairless women. Pages of porn
torn into shreds
of shiny thigh/grinning, goofy, custard-
pie/cum-shot faces/lips big
with blow-job collagen.
Plug up the holes in the ground/ staunch
mend the spiky
mess of their nests
with the loose leaves of wanked-on women.
Mix with me, Pig Thief,
our together is better than theirs.
They belong to us, these After Woods. We’re fused
by the death-trap seam,
welded together like cut-and-shut cars.
Feel my head, Pig Thief!
I’m as hot as a county tyre fire!
Feel my heart! The thrum
of an electric razor! And my brain
is throbbing like a juicy bone. The buzz off of me,
like jellies and e! A hum!
I’m sloshing like an egg in a leaky radiator!
The light pours out of me like Saint Theresa,
like an open fridge.
These are The After Woods. We will tell stories.
We will wear water. We will have gardens and draw water. Our gardens will be made of stone.
We will catch the water in pink plastic tubs,
ripped out from remodelled bathrooms in show homes.
We will ride white horses over the rubble.
I’ll be a fine lady.
When the world ends.