Friday, 28 February 2014

Reading at Port Launay

Interrupting Ellroy, I sense and then find the
decomposing body floating ass-up at a hook
in the river, definitely the stench speaking out
between the lines to stop my reading: flies
laying eggs on darkened feathers where he is
sans mate but where French kisses once
hen-pecked him to love [hickeys sure as shit,
James echoes from what I managed to take in
so far] recalling this swan-pair last time I read here.
At first I’d contemplated a human corpse from
its distant floating shadow – some other upstream
terrorism – but it makes little sense, knowing, to
feel worse now. Many relationships reach an end
yet this one pains more than any story somehow.

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