Nostalgia  

I sat in the Valencian February sun thawing the fug of hibernation. Face burning I pulled the crumpled broadsheet out of my rucksack. Folding it over my eyes skidded over the headline broken politics; conjuring crack I spun it through my mind.    

Data smokescreen; their invisible shadow. 

I ordered a glass of Rioja, it tasted like muddy footprints in the fecund earth.   

The Memorial  

Furry bodies decay in the cavities of the old tenement walls;

Traces of luminous pink on their snouts.  

Kissed by a lullaby sent to their death. 

The threat only temporarily extirpated; 

The wire chair. 

Grid marks, stuck in the ignominy of the ego trip. 

An assiduous flow of pernicious repurposed updates.    

Blood Curdling Ex   

Each one, a carefully constructed meditation of destructive perfection. A dial-in dopamine fix when the only alleviation is to warp the angle. Dead love. There is nothing without the memory of each one of you. Filth: cornucopia bite marks, bruises mating spine to tentacle. We kissed and licked away the terrible deeds we have done. On the corner, a tree curving in to dote on a lamppost. Just wanna be close to you in murderous repetition.     

The Promenade 

Rhythmic footsteps I head back to the Airbnb mind clutching a ceramic egg head on a spring. I am seven; bouncing it up and down until it smashes. The tips of my fingers glued together. Sloe, pricked by the thorn. A capturing essence practice.