WRIT WRAT WORT WROTE

grease and line the baking tray, transfer the salad from bag to box - it always wilts in the refrigerator, use blue plastic gloves to handle or mix, the waste oil goes into a bucket and is sent away like toxic waste, individual wipes for the meat probe, mummify the breasts in cling film, stuff the mouth with polystyrene, label and date the forehead, inject the eyes with lead, wire wool in the ears, seal the bag and put her in the deep freeze for 10,000 years. our ancestors will find mother earth next to the ham hock, her tears still frozen to her cheeks

On the day of the move, Dad drove us fast, some would say maniacally, to the Tip, the van vibrated full with angular piles of chair-legged shit She had said 'you must give it to charity or put it in storage' but, he had defied her and, like victims of a rising flood At war with our own posessions we jettisoned it all out onto the puddled tarmac of the yard childhood photographs, a record player and 3 piece suite and a cabinet full of patient’s files curtains from the Gambia, a wardrobe and 300 beautiful Venetian tiles, prized gifts and a stained antique rocking horse that looked me in the eye horrified to be confronted by the accumulation of our greed, we hurled them all, furiously into the buzzing piles of other people’s crap ‘don’t tell your mother what we’ve done’ he said as we headed back to our soon to be vacated home, I was given a greasy spoon, the chips tasted bitter, guilty - the reward for my collusion. I couldn’t tell who was the adult that day

the morning after, after, after pill I didn’t say anything weird did i, will? you count the coppers and i count the flies regreta-mine-d for  all our worth, a crust of chemicals around the eyes we’ve been bady spare changed, in the dirty mirror, it’s the worst  - the cuts, zits, wallops and sallow skin, all beckon in - another hollow detox vegan Monday for me and the chins you leave. exit stage left. a phone rings: URGENTLY IMMEDIATELY pls now hun thnx  to TOWN, to OUT, in HEELS to HEAVEN,  dragging identity crisis handbag head out of bed, doused, anointed, royally appointed, teeth whitened and ready on the chorus line- how are you hun! im -  *unscrewing a bottle of cheap white wine* oh,well. i’m fine we can sleep when we’re dead, babe, we can sleep when we’re dead four hours later and we’re TOUCHED, really, but no thanks wishing, at the bar, that the take of tongues was better, less bony, less dry, less brittle, than a 5am steak bake and the 50,000 fags and pretty bois and girls and twonks unlearning Learning Good Consent wot you read on the bog (btw, special shout out to the two twats who touched my paper tits) ‘‘oi, mate, is contactless okay?’‘ - no. no its not- all i want is contact- you should see my collection of well thumbed, unused latex, the dresser drawers keep em fresh like humidores - -btw, i keep your underwear, your hair, your smell on my bed, my body, my mind but that drawer stays closed, most of the time FOREVER MINE peace. i remember our body yawns, sighs and creaks -but  it was you, you, you, tho, remember, that pissed the bed, not me it was you that smashed the window, broke your teef, your neck, heart and clarinet the twin cruets of y/our soul sobbing and blubbing salty in the tub accusations thrown, smoke plumes & at that point our biographies get all confused who did what and who played who in the queue: (half angry, half sarcastic, half mad)  we’re fucked fucked fucked -again it’s decided - keepy uppies, all night long,  after all, we’re still in our 20′s right?  sniffing chins with the 17 yo hipster yuppies in their halls with their pulp fiction posters, hawaiian shirts, breakcore and ket whirring, fizzing, frenzied and whistling- a watched me watches you from a closed eye 10ft remove, the hands rolling, rolling, alighted chronic halo pulling - tapping your glass hashpipe crackpipe on the bin, trust me, now, shake fingered, be careful, love blue crystal fires as you spill your cereal down your chin the nude shoe falls off the foot mine or someone else’s mouth says: but, babes - come on - you can sleep when you’re dead I Remember why we go out the deafening silence, as we dance the thudding house that, for a moment, twins our souls in perfect perfect Peace

’’Actually” a sharp knife cut under cold water the point of your tone slices through a new line on your forehead i havent seen before a strange hot feeling wells in my eye iloveyouiloveyouiloveyoudont ifeellikei ifeellikeyou an unwanted guest has come to live in our bodies ‘you need to -’ ’i need to what?’ made us foreign to one another, ourselves the record stops and the ornaments eye us in shame the air is dense with the animosity of dogs the smile returns to its meaning in the wild: ‘watch out’, as a threat, not a warning i look down at my hands, to see a pair of claws

spurned advances prick holes in skin. knowing feelings aren’t returned  forces me to grieve at the wrong shaped edge of my puzzle piece when you’re not looking, i spread my love across the sky like the aurora, but, instead, it’s just a compilation of yawning needs my green envies twinkling over stars. my eyes are a projector that shine my fantasies on to you when they don’t fit I make excuses, twist and bend myself backwards into myself again, like a paperclip, so that they do. guarding my pandora’s box little moth of my secret, whispered: ‘i love you’.

I want my sweet potatoe to come out of a crinkly brown paper bag to be washed under cool water, scrubbed clean with a wire brush I want my sweet potatoes to look like it’s come from the organic farmers market I want my sweet potato to come from Syria, to be touched lovingly by a brown man’s hands, I want it to fly in a plane for the first time in its life shaking in a box with its brothers and sisters I want my potato sanctified by Jesus Christ himself, I want my sweet potato to ring me up on the phone and tell me I’m the only one on swede dial, I mean, speed dial I want my sweet potato to be inserted deep inside my warm crevice, squeezed for 30 days, and then squirted out as a buttery burnt orange foam I want my sweet potato to multiply in two and hang from each nipple on hemp twine umbilical cords spinning like Catherine wheels on bonfire night I want my sweet potato to provide an alibi for every sin I’ve ever committed, ‘’ýes, he did it.’’ I want my sweet potato to whisper the answers to 9 across ‘hot water stool, 8 letters’ – diarrhea I want my sweet potato to go back in time to 2002 and lead the anti-Iraq war march in daisy dukes and a kaftan I want my sweet potato to sing an inspiring song  about Mount Kilimanjaro that changes the course of history I want my sweet potato to fall in love and leave me and then come back promising things will be different I want my sweet potatoe to be transgender and change it’s name by deed poll to Pete Swotatoe I want my sweet potato to die in a fire and bequeath, in its will to me, 16 other sweet potatoes exactly like it in every way - but better I want my sweet potato to travel to travel 200 miles to Brighton, pick up a feather-down pillow from John Lewis in the Boxing Day sale, and hold it up to my Mother’s face until she stops screaming I want my sweet potato to look like Brad Pitt, dance like John Travolta and sing like Frank Sinatra I want my sweet potato to be baked with butter that drools out between it’s halves onto the plate I want my sweet potato to make america great again. By Dora Colquhoun & Brendan Curtis

Mould leopard prints up the buckling wallpaper Tea tree oil comes at my nostril clear as a bell the bathroom steam mixes with particles of shit (probably) little rings of cut of pubic hairs swirling round the bath tub like insane person calligraphy the big toe nail is fucking ugly - striped white and brown and the spider plants are getting yellow. it’s a bit of a race against time, I think to achieve what you want to before the body surrenders to its bacterial desires I read that the trees were harvesting us for fertilizer playing the long game with mankind fattening us up the leaves stroke our faces and the knots in the wood malevolently stare flush the toilet – don’t think too hard.

I remember building a sand woman at the beach with the boys. Watching stoically as the waves eroded her body. I remember you writing emails on the veranda. I remember you rubbing a marinade into spatch-cocked hens. Your hands are like a shop front mannequins now, fixed and claw like. Vacant eyes trapped in wordless distrust. There comes a point when the disease has taken so much, that more of you exists online than it does in your own mind. Your correspondences with the children, the vet or the bank. Regards, Edelweiss A time came when I noticed I felt more in love with your old Dell, than you. You used to talk about archaeologists in the future, reading through our tax returns or the comments on our Youtube channels. Will they remark on our savagery? - as we laughed at stilted poses in Victorian photographs or the alien headed Mary Magdelanes of the renaissance. The slideshow of our lives, flashes by with each clicking second and our statuses unknowingly, become our epitaphs.