Stride Magazine - www.stridemagazine.co.uk
Not in this room. Not on this life. Never in this house. No way this
is going down.
Until it's fallen over. Fall under. Thrown over. Through.
DANCE TO THE
DEATH OF THE NOVEL
It's gotten calmer. They've stopped asking light to take it off. All
off. So heavy the breath. As if a tree rolled onto rib-box. Rasp of
blade against bar.
Eye to keyhole notes friction. No ear for second law of thermodynamics.
Knocks against wall. Nose tones grindstone, recovers and preaches conservation
So light on feet. Once the crawl. Now the swing. Gesture for romance
heading out the door.
OF WRY NUMBERS
Click, no hum. A dead line along the dress, where sequence could not
be found. But rather fond of fabric. Approach as curtains in wind. Always
Less on downdraft, the upturn. Syncope on menu. One less, two less.
Fingers drum. Where dinner could be. Better flounder than famine.
Long dress where skin. No connection without ground. Answer as wind
CRACKED TO BITS
Not enough spilled. What cannot be put in order. Always crying at the
unwrapped end. Who makes who doesn't.
Sick of one thing and another. Take up body from inside out. When on
the outside show. Be proud of tremor tearing strata nowhere safe to
HOLD THE BRAINS
Baked and irreparable. Downing nips of some coolant over coat and butter.
But not without scenting seized.
Localized here to nub strewn. You still rake?
Of all the friends in the world to eat, mind to ingest. Put an egg on
it and call it even less what used to make a ruckus on the half-shell.
Let go this date and aged purse no wicked wind pursues and for which
the tongue transpires.
Gian Lombardo 2002