Can you hear me listening through the staves? Marshmallow inflections come home to roost to roast the clear coast of auditory keepsakes that inflect the now lines safely tucked into my being lifelike in life. The circuits shaped like elfin fins give way to wires that hitch together lifetimes of lifelines all Thursday daylight long. And symmetry, what is that, old water dashed upon the dashboard rubbed once or twice with Murphy’s oil soap or something brandished from scratch like straw of Rumpelstiltskin in pages and ear canals of lore?
Simplex, atonal piercings, skin no longer whole
Sheila E Murphy
Pic: Rupert Loydell
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