Monday 28 November 2011

The son of the architect lies strewn on a heap of rubbish

She was killed on a Friday afternoon. Father did not dare to go. I had to. We went, the gardener and I, down to the old house. Blood on the stairs, the walls, everywhere or so it felt. The bed, unmade stared at us, asking what we were doing there. The gardener started cleaning, I just walked around. I had not been to the house since I was five. She did not want to talk to us any more.

Silence has insinuated itself to every pore of the house (She can curse us no more). In the kitchen, a few lonely cups await their fate. The fridge is grand and new. We are inside it. All of us, every single one of us.

Monday 21 November 2011


Marooned in Nightland I dream of my unborn son, half man half snake coiling itself around my entrails. I wail in silence, throw myself against the walls and down the stairs to no avail.

Sit down and do not breathe cannot stand the noise don’t look don’t say.

Swollen skies swelter over my head. Walking the same old road, I pass the rail station the shops and the park. Summertime and life is easy. Ice cream in the afternoon , la vie en rose in the evening.

Do you have much to do with colour in those days? Does the fact that the sun shone without mercy grew on you? Was your mother happy? Can’t remember anything.

Tango, music.

Monday 14 November 2011


You wake up in the morning and everything is fine
An hour later the world has collapsed beneath your feet

He went to the beach for the first time in the summer of 1943. The place would remain undiscovered for another 20 years or so. It was a long peninsula on the coast, the south side tide was weak and slow, the north violent and treacherous, According to the locals, it had claimed the life of many a foolish swimmer.

Every day he walked from the chalet to the beach exploring the countryside. To him all the people were mysterious, incomprehensible creatures. . He sauntered across the pine forest. The cool wind conferred pallor to his skin. La vie en rose was in the air. He wanted a blond wig.

Monday 7 November 2011


(My body a mangled bundle of flesh squatting. Rotten dreams stream, the waters broken. Rabid dogs and long summers)