Autopsy

there's photographs of it.
it's like touching up history
it's amazing, the christmas
tree much taller than her
5 foot 3 - a room and
the tiniest little ante-room,
a toilet and nothing else
in it.
Wistful for ten years,
I found you attractive.
He had no idea he'd have
to earn a living. 40 grand
is a lot of money. The
autopsy reveals how surprised
he is that people
knew him enough to
make noise.
There's an idea that people
suffer terrible trauma because
they're mentally ill.
It would be inconceivable
to think like that.
That's a belief to throw
yourself into something - it's \
a delusional state.
Normally, if you didn't have
recognition - incredibly popular -
overnight. People who are
special, over time, become
known.
He looks around when pronouncing
French - they reveled in
symbolism. A public dress
rehearsal, a public performance.
to people who see these
shows, that's it.
there's only really one.
This is where Ibsen was born.
I'm sorry.
Those two nights become a
model - almost bankrupt.
Vegas and New York to follow.
He he he.
the good times.
She stares side-long as he spins
a glass round and round.
They had no legs. Isn't that amazing.
Which bit?
'The end.'
'Oh right.'
that's what you see, the
remnants of our exploration into
things we've not known.
'Are you concrete?'

dis-inter

I buried you here again
Re-exhuming you is painful
but it's become a habit. I
take small pieces of you
with me, festering and lonely,
as I stalk the Heath,
tweed-clad and nasty in
my outrage. That's all spent
now, it's borrowed fakery that
propels me forward into dark
moors and deep inebriations.
Mine is a pit lined with best
intentions where I lay you as
needs be, into each new impression
like a child may a toy in
dirt-box dreams. I've no
recompense but digging into hard
brown earth, ripe and truffle-
filled - as a pig in swill.

But you weren't buried here or
anywhere
Fire consumed you, melted rings
accusing us all of conspiracies of
neglect and indolence - of being
too unaccustomed to your absences
and to render uncanny, your long
and strange delays.
there's an odd veracity in death
that seems to spit finality in
the face of our fragility - to
scream the coming of cessation
in our light frame as to
crumble in under the extreme
pressure of mortality.

tendencies

tend to make one part broken hearted,
sit here in Babylon and stroll hooded streets
in music shoes
There's not much to say, a quiet drift, 6 weeks in
to nothingness and doubt
Weakness in my step

Pine-Eyes

I want to find the place where old Pine-Eyes turns wood again...

Silverman

The box arrived from Social services.

There’s a photo of her, smiling flat-faced in the flash, with two men. The same photo – two men. One is tall, a small beard on his chin, perhaps to define it from his thick neck. The other, darker, his eyes close set under heavy eyebrows, stares indolently at the camera, his hand draped over her shoulder.

It’s funny that in this box, crisp and white, with its neat label ‘Florey Silverman’ should contain all of this girl.

And Somewhere a man ashes a cigarette into a sardine can.

Her mother smokes constantly, even in the hospital. It seems to define her, each furtive suck a punctuation.

Cause he’s a bastard – drag – that’s why – blow – never cared for her – drag.

Said ‘He wasn’t running a home for strays’ smoke wreathes the room, mingling with grey light.

That’s where she was going that last day – to tell him, to tell Albert what he done was wrong.

Children play on wrecked cars games of sticks and forts. Somewhere a fiddle. Stares from caravan doors.

Albert is stooped into his face, his hair pushed forward into dark-set eyes. His grey jumper stained with grease.

She was a nightmare. Threw her out. I make decisions about what is best for my community.

Where do you think it was then?

I got no idea.

Florey was a handful – she had a knack, I spose – for causing trouble.

Were Sara and Florey friends?

Yeah, I spose, all the kids were.

You better come see this.

Fetus bones? Yes, from site 1.

We have strong evidence she was pregnant. She may not have shown.

I didn’t know. She changed so much. We had another row – I didn’t know. I said ‘I’d had enough of her behaviors’

The spray is police issue.

The righteous father and the grieving son.

I encounter Robbie on the stairs. He sidles past me, I can hear him inhale - cataloguing for some later feast - my dark smells.

Malcolm, were you there? Did you do it?

I know these people, I fought their battles.

Do you know who the father of Florey’s baby was?

Stop it!

I knew he’d done it. That is why I had to act.

Shaun?

It wasn’t him.

The person who attacked him – it wasn’t my dad.

You’re wrong Liam. It was Robbie.

A bent cop doing a favour for a mate. A pregnant teen and a forbidden relationship.

She was dead for three months and no one even noticed she was gone.