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black tyres. brown puddle. white kitten. 


slate bump. slight crunch. sick churn.


brown tyres. red puddle. dead kitten.

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flow

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  oh, to be a wind spirit. my lithe form flutters through the chimes that tinkle in a glass house on a mound. we are but tiny soldiers of clay and fire, baked and painted little toys, when forgotten, lifeless. fallen leaves rustle, only  to become laden with the weight of time and be buried forever. to be the little sprite stealing  in between broken columns and blades  of grass and throats of sparrows  in a nurturing tree. to be an imperceptible shift, the inconsequential whisper in a crowd of voices that want to leave their mark.
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strawberry-flavoured balloons

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my mother’s drawer is a magpie’s nest. her restless treasures sizzle under the scant sunlight. her watchful, furtive, darting eyes. then her hands slam the drawer shut. she flares at my longing stares. don’t you touch it or i’ll have your guts for garters. mummy and daddy are out until noon. i slip, slither, slide. gleam. swoon. head plunged into a cold green chest filled with gold watches that don’t tick and teardrop-shaped pearls and my pretty china doll that mum claimed was lost. (hiss.) there’s a box the size of a Frooti pack. on the cover’s a handsome man with tousled hair. a woman with parted lips trails a digit down his chiselled chest. the picture of a strawberry. it looks like Dark Fantasy and Fruit-tella had a baby. the offspring of two forbidden fruits, staring right at me. fervent fingertips tear through the tin foil and pull out a pink ringed soft rubber and taste it. bland. sticky. the raised isometric dots like goosebumps on my tongue. what is this thing? grownups have ...
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