nice hollow you’ve got

Fine comb. Cows in surf. Powdered ships close by. The cosmetics were shut or lost or transported. There were no delights, there was no throwing, no one spoke, and the surfaces resounded through an empty universe. Ha. Hah. The bicycle plunged through the night without lights, taking corners at breakneck speed. The bottle smashed in a deep pool. The inert wreckage bent. We camped out for a long time wreaking havoc on an already stressed environment. Music played, men wore dresses and butch ladies turned up decked out in fine linen, trou and waistcoats, that kind of gear, stovepipes, all the rage, eyeing up the clientele through a blue haze. Afternoon wore on into evening, patrons settling down for a night of it. The interviews went on and on. Candidates lay about in the corridor. It was political in the sense of eradicating the middle ground. Took passage and fled. What else could a woman do? So, the seaweed closed over her face – but what colour was that face? The trick question. And the same cows were grazing a second year. Oh yes, they took us through it, through it and through it, turning the consequences over to more formidable interrogators, Such a mess. Remember the swagger with which she emerged from the sea only to confront yet another inspection. Start again. There were tears and they were your tears as you spoke those words. Get a big gin inside you and go home to bed. Better that way than trapped ion that utopia. Those old ships are the best ships. Those old universes the most empty.

murray edmond