Paper Object Town

By | 11 August 2008

dear jones: i should never have come this place it is beyond desolation there are no sunsets and honey no hat-tipping neighbours friendly milk vendors nylon magdalenes mothers and ballpark heroes only a slow and lecherous infestation your organs a darkness so complete you do not inhabit this place it inhabits you. on fire escape stairs i smoke from a makeshift pipe each night something new a length of discarded pvc tubing copper pipe from a nearby construction site even a rearview mirror you attach to the side of your car when you tow a caravan on those long family holidays where all you see and hear and taste is curled and yellowed with time and turns the veins in your forearm to spaghetti hardened at the thought of sepia-toned wallet photographs. one night i even fashioned a pipe from a plastic pump-action water pistol reservoir great smoke a black milk lung toxin. tongue jaundice. the fruit of starfield road. japanese sirens burn all night colour does not exist it is not permitted. people hang from chains rust in metal vaults the bottle and the drinker who can tell? automobile crash subway fire fatal headshot knifewounds to genitals punctured breast tissue bound wrists incinerated plane crash victim suicidal strangulation by ligature foreign body in airway. drag marks. the footprints of the deceased. a recently vacated room. no signs of struggle. only morning taken as crimson pills. and skin, burning a distant star.


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