Roleigh-Prawn

Chalk crushes under my foot shatters and scrapes beautifully as I hear the familiar SnapCracklePop of memories.                  I nurture it and paint my life in fingerprints from the left of my brain. I use careful, enraged strokes to capture the vulgar sweetness of that house. My room, my jungle: A twinkling circus paper                border with darkened, frayed                edges. My Mother fights for survival in the kitchen: Cheap grind of lemon flesh against plastic, the weeping jaundiced carcass a blinking eye in his line of vision. Her grip tightens: knuckles white as the ice spewing from his m

An outcast. Born from an illiterate evening of misspelled passion, his life was to be a true Comedy of Errors. Out of his young hands came words… At night he dreamed A Midsummer-Night's Dream, weaved a pair of star-cross'd lovers. Words as powerful as Julius Caesar himself. For the Twelfth Night running I lie in my second best bed. I try to recreate a masterpiece. I breathe in rhyming couplets. I sleep in a soliloquy. I-AM-BIC-PENT-A-MET-ER- - -? He hid a thousand smiles in every laboured letter that leaked from his loved pen. My efforts come to dust. I rush out into the Tempest of the night. Every star is a sonnet to me

Today I emptied out the bin. Turned it over Turned it out like the spilt guts of a rabid beast Hungrily hungrily searching like a starved fox. My eyes were spinn- ing in my head. Tiny littered circles of decayed tomato flesh. Today I sat in our waste. I should have hated it but I loved it to death Eagerly eagerly like a crisp packet plague. I held the shiny torn wrappers like a mirror and I found a lady I knew in a magazine. I cut out her smile for later. There was paper and in my plastic brain I fashioned it into the shape of a tree. I bathed like a dolphin in the soothing scent of rotting leftovers. I had