Storm front, roll cloud

By | 15 September 2022

“Maybe it’s a thing you could call the subgrime”
Jill Jones to Claire Albrecht

I’ve been looking at my hands holding the knife,
at the skins, pips, cores, stalks
at the sink filling
I’ve been looking at tiny writing on packets
I’ve been looking at daddy long legs in corners
at huntsmen stepping from crannies
the knotty hair of sleeping children
jar lids, special offers.

Angus Young plays the guitar.
It is his work, he wears a uniform.

Jodi lowers herself into the water.
“What even is everything,”
thinks Jodi.

My ordinary life feels like a dirty fleece
hard grease and soft grease
and dirt and burrs.
I’m hoping the energy to wash and rinse
that heavy, crinkled, mass
will discover me
one morning.

Angus Young
smoking a cigarette, wearing a jumper
talking to Molly
“we started as a rock n roll band
you never think you get that far
want you to soften it here
mellow it there.”

I’ve been looking
at the sky

clouds like Florentine wallpaper
clouds like crinkled staples
clouds like a frosty window. The sky with nothing
but a pewter-grey edge
coming in fast.
The sky cloudless. Every

I’ve been looking at a hill of beans
and a damp coriander leaf wet and flat on the counter
feathery margins akimbo.

The knife, the wool
the sky, the burrs, the riff
the pool, the tapes, the taps.
Jodi pushes off the side
to start her backstroke
arms glittering.
Angus listens to the next question
answers with a cloud.

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