street / night with no name
loss of signal from weather stations
I’m mostly sure it isn’t raining.
I’m sure of moons but not of streetlights
we cannot trust perception sickness.
heavy trench coat, empty pockets,
a notebook, scarcity of clues.
I’ve got no names to go on.
Is this dusk, suddenly?
a solar eclipse?
there’s darkness and tinctures in the sky
shadows falling at false angles.
Compound walls remind me of police states,
maximum security blockades, abandoned forts.
This could be long after the wars,
or decades before.
This could be nocturnes age,
I’m not sure.
Time sickness is so misleading.
Some things I can conclude.
The castle is empty, save the grounds keeper.
He’s bent and digging among the grass that’s taller than children.
He’s pulling bits of glass from his feet and sand pits.
I pull out the notebook.
There isn’t much to go on.
Descriptions of how the bodies were posed.
Phone numbers of sex offenders.
There’s moat and rubble in his eyes
sunken timeframes / morphine pills
He points north.
The toy store is the colour of lemon cake and raspberry
There are teddy bears and baby animals, like motionless corpses, but soft, watching me from the shelves.
There are faux plastic men with knives and intent, teasing me with 1/12th scale balaclavas.
A tea party set. Pink plastic table.
That’s where I find his call sign.
A toy egg
full of raw meat
pierced with fresh, white feathers and flowers.
The babysitter has been here, shopping.
He’s talking to me. Making it obvious.
Doll dresses left in a box, body gone.
My little Pony panties wrapped around the neck of a mannequin boy.
Skewers arranged like crosses.
I haven’t got much to go on.
CCTV replay cartoons, overdubbed with audio from torture porn scenes. Witnesses, dumbfounded and drowsy from lunch. Drunken security guard.
It’s suddenly, dusk.
The world is the colour of blue jazz and whiskey fatigue.
I’m at the north wall.
There are canine bite marks in concrete, centuries old. The tracks are cold, streets are flooded.
Floating body of a young mother, bumps up against me.
I know this game he’s playing.
‘The Babysitter’ appeals to ‘Father Figure’,
“I have the perfect children, you have the perfect wives, together, we can keep the perfect family.”
C.I.D have nothing to go on.
Heavy trench coats, case files empty.
There are unmarked graves and sundresses in my eyes.
The urge to shop, escalates again.
Personae sickness, intoxicating.