The Cutprice Guignol

The Old Department

The floors are cracked and white;
No windows. Corridors are long. Dry.
I can tell, they were handsome once- strong jaws, hairlines hidden under sparks,
Grey scribbled out with dye.
The toe of my pretty leather girl’s shoe catches, and I trip-
My thoughts thrown, I try to remember where I’ve been. An old dream
Beats behind every door and leeching screen.

The Early Hours

Our backs move like fins in shadows,

Half-light growing, birds singing as if they don’t know we’re hunters,

You bite with dry teeth.

I arch against the damp air,

Garrulity unraveling to a small cry

And words to syllables and sounds.

We move to a beat like poetry,

Eyes closed, lost in your cadence, my staccato note.