this howling at the sky is only in my head, trapped in dying flesh and shrinking skin, snagged on teeth and twisted tongue, the crooked rod my father wittled, driven into stricken ground. i used to dream as I walked beneath the avenues of heads bowed streetlights, orange haloes in my deteriorating vision, glowing sores in the industrial night, that their necks were strung with the hung bodies of my enemies, and the procession wound on for many a mile into the night and forever and the sight was good. now there’s nothing but a space into which no one speaks – the only sounds are the sounds behind the world – the hum of a fridge, the constant surge and recession of traffic, tinnitus, other people’s lives staggering past the window, the shuddering bus outside the laundrette. Left behind the world, like something behind a suburban fridge, covered in fluff.

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