There is not a sign of a silver lining
for there is not a cloud in the sky.
Midnight-moon illuminates shimmer-shivers
(and black-lit blood blotches)
over the frame of a skeletal shopping trolley,
which,
being pushed by a strong Southeaster,
limp-strolls over an empty supermarket car park
where angels and daemons do drug deals.

The moon looked brighter underwater,
so she decided to stay in a little longer;
from her nose bubbled the birth of a solar system,
over her goggles rose the sun,
and in her ears algae aliens whispered:
*Rise, sister, and come down with us.

It’s Tuesday again—not a clue what the date is.
It’s Tuesday.


A tikka curry is simmering on the stove.
There’s no wine in my paper cup (I used it in the food).
A refill it is, then— not too much— leave some for the guest;
nobody likes a drunken host.

I set the table:
two spoons (my guest insists),
two bowls (he’s messy),
a roll of toilet paper (he’s got style).

The elevator doors open—
I know this because they make an annoying choo-eet, choo-eet sound,
and I’ve been living in this ******* apartment
for longer than I can remember.

Footsteps echo through the corridor—
Oh, I’m so excited when he visits!
Even the little cows on the kitchen curtains are smiling.
Hope he enjoys the curry.

The doorbell rings twice – such an impatient little man,
but I do so enjoy his company.
I open the door and give him a hug;
he whispers in my ear, *Good evening, me.

It takes some time to make sense of his surroundings;
the bright light,
the cold floor tiles.
An empty tequila bottle floats into focus—
not that it makes any sense to him whatsoever
(tequila bottles don’t operate that way).
There’s a shot glass and first aid kit on the floor,
salt shaker,
meat cleaver.

It doesn’t take long to realize things had gotten out of hand;
he’s in cuffs,
she in fits and giggles.
He looks up at the underside of the kitchen table—
a blade of some sort is scraping over the Formica top.

Her legs are covered in badly-dressed wounds,
a hundred open mouths French-kissing
Betadine brown bandages.

He closes his eyes and asks for forgiveness,
prays that there’ll be love in her violence.

Forgiveness comes in the form of an axe,
and all the love she had for him
he’d beaten out of her.

The weight in her soul
filled her stomach like a sack of rocks;
bills to pay
mouths to feed
prayers to say.

She cracked a bottle,
there, on the other side of the tracks
where cat ****
and Bibles
smell the same.

The Seven O’ Five
rattled the windows in their frames;
time for smoke
time for drink
time for dope.

The baby cried twice,
once of cold, and once for her mama
who had left
in a flash
overdose.