Eva Quill

Torrential

somewhere in a plague of semi-circular barbiturates
and anesthetic credit stands
negate turned carbines that yoke to oncoming trains
somewhere past the final resting pinch
around crumbling bridge pillboxes that once breathed firebrick,
steady

a gig in a mini skullcap and laughter militias wide
another in a Thunderbirds ideal and sunglasses, dreadfully fell
chimes of the eighties
look how far you’ve come, or lost?
passerbys in parlour loudspeakers

freefall for layer chalices
freefall for french mannequins
freefall for sweating under staircases
freefall for north ramen souvenirs
freefall for loam through the shouted straits

one nightingale he comes screeching into the strait
clutching an angel
“i heard someone was looking for you”
a backdrop cuckolds and swallows the lifestyles of the strand
did any of it happen
did i

twinkling ashes tiptoe.