Velvet Ski Bin
Cool, liminal coughs come from somewhere beyond The Playground. The quiet, inert shriek of a batswallow drifts across the abandoned ski-jump, its vermillion wings leaving velvetine traces of retinal-burn in the cloudsmear. Tracy stalks the roads.
The If-Track has been opened; lefty-looking drinkers inch their way towards a slow, clay-coloured cataclysm. Stuart Walker’s voice slips off the ink-prism. Someone more yellow has taken his place.
Tall, limping carpenters drift, a few kilometres askew, off the tepid coastline of Ilfrica.
Does your head feel like an elbow? If so, then those carpenters’ve smoked your soul.
Molten pentacles glimmer in a dustbin. Like vegetables.
Peter’s House is almost dry.