Monday, November 01, 2004

(Dear K, I'd write.)

Then there was an intruder in our house and stalking around downstairs. My favourite intruder, he wore a grey suit and a top hat. He carried a walking stick, a walking stick that doubled up as a machine gun (my brother and my mother, blood on the clock, on the walls, blood on your eyelashes, a wire around my neck). He made a pastrami sandwich. He walked out with my laptop.

I made bracelets that said lovely and hello and this is more a comment on my limited vocabulary.

There are things I want to tell you, if you called me. My hot water opened, unscrewed; I drowned in my green bed.

I scribbled on your face.