angel-in-pieces

I drive all night, following the skyline through the trees until I reach your side, deer. It's something about the way you're lying, mid-leap, as if sleep has taken you unawares that stops me there. And it's your eyes that hold me, your unseeing gaze that somehow holds me whole in the haze of the moonlight, on the rim of the world. Like that moon, you have run yourself blind, unfurled as if in a dream. And it seems your legs are broken, yet in my headlights you rise like heat to the place where night and day finally meet.

I drive all night, following the skyline through the trees until I reach your side, deer. It's something about the way you're lying, mid-leap, as if sleep has taken you unawares that stops me there. And it's your eyes that hold me, your unseeing gaze that somehow holds me whole in the haze of the moonlight, on the rim of the world. Like that moon, you have run yourself blind, unfurled as if in a dream. And it seems your legs are broken, yet in my headlights you rise like heat to the place where night and day finally meet.

Thursday nights are silver screened. At nine, it's time once again to air the prelude to a dream. I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate contours of your face to appear: the features of a lover I'll never meet. It seems strange to say (a kind of admission of defeat), but to be honest I'm OK with the pause, rewind, replay that makes up our relationship. You have to admit, knowing I'd never flip channels or walk out when you're in a scene is a devotion, of sorts. I expect nothing in return. I know you know nothing of me. But I can't help but love you; your close-ups, your scripted smile, the way you lean towards the screen

It is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure who started the game, or whose face he wears, he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end, the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween. And he swore he'd bait their breath, but they'd rather choose death than fear, with their tombstone legs, arms pegged in sockets and their locked ears, burying themselves beneath blocks built to the sun. They outrun him, every time. It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said: do what you're able to keep them faithful

. He still choked on goodbyes, words like 'charred' and 'charnel', but it always fell to Mars to make the house of bone and regolith, to take fingerprints from the dead. He breathes the scenes of crimes time after time in his own grim theatre. Like a surgeon, he sculpts the earth, wreaks revenge and wreckages. Teethes soot and stones into the tired wings of ribcages, wishbones - each one a promise. That one day, bulbs will breach the eyes of skulls, that fruits will fill the skypits of the lost. One day, these bruises will amuse, and all that bloodrush will be just blush beneath his skin. .

     It's freezing, sub-zero out here. I make my way through the park to the lake, where the trees open out and you can see the sky once more. It's beautiful, on a day like today. Not a cloud in the sky - just a pale whiteness, a hole in the fabric of the heavens. I take the mud track through the undergrowth and find a place where no one will see.      I grew up here, in this town, by this park. We used to come here all the time, to ride our bikes, feed the ducks in summer, and in winter, we'd take our skates and head for the lake, where we'd carve patterns into the ice. There's a photograph of me I remember, one of those old Polaroids that

The pattern revolves and we are left alone again. Sidestepping abhorrence, I avoid your unfaltering gaze as you concentrate on burning holes through my thoughts. I am not interested in warranting your dismissal, yet I cannot bear to let you stay. You hold me up to the light and see right through the threads of my existence; fluvial streams of nothingness all linking up to- To where? Another thing I shall never know. I am not a circle, but we are together and how romantic that may seem when buried in cold sarcasm. Out of the corner of my eyes I see your lips curl cruel as you picture my demise; slow crumbling through your fingertips. I may

It is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure who started the game, or whose face he wears, he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end, the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween. And he swore he'd bait their breath, but they'd rather choose death than fear, with their tombstone legs, arms pegged in sockets and their locked ears, burying themselves beneath blocks built to the sun. They outrun him, every time. It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said: do what you're able to keep them faithful

i. I am practising being a dead man walking - exactly the kind of game that it's easy to emerge from, carrying on, figuring that you are determined to stop those who want to spread extremism, hatred, zen. Libertarianism is just one step away from anarchy, they said. And it is. But it's also one step away from independence and getting out of the shelters of altitudes; the atmospheric pressure. Life is not easy here, where space is on the other side, the outside. ii. One man smiled and said I am worried that there's something not quite kosher going on here. But I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination, and imagination is