Choo Choo

Hard to write, I don’t know, sewing trains together with leather hitches. I’ve grown entire sounds of myself, puttin’ me thick foot to me ear. Hard to hear anything save seathieves with bones sewn to their hats. Arrrr. The birds go: Arrrrr. I’ve got teaspots on my trousers, probably Edna O’brien in there. Scintillating, she …

Dialong

She is like plaque, that is what you say to her. Her face obscured; hair over her eyes and cheeks, her hands. ¬†Yellow hair over the white cuffs she is wearing even to the bed. Her life is a mess and though plaque badly describes it, she understands what you mean. So go on. There …