tonight, only one toilet clogged.
unlike those other nights –
halls full of choked bowls, underground, flooded, knee deep in –
like those other times,
tar like leeches peeled from back of thigh,
bad stuff sliding from anus.
at least no one is watching me. There’s no shaming.
where are the sewer tides?
in subterranea: orange lichen rocks, gasping creatures,
land of the dead, dry.
I’m used to the gurgling.
Great Acheron, now a weakling.
street level / brutal sun
(clothed or not, I don’t know.)
shophouses silent, no cars on the road.
where are the hipsters?
topsy turvy tea sets
signs of turbulence
phone is dying.
“alright, wifey, where are you?”
she’s a thin, floating voice, eroded by light years.
I think she’s dead. floating in space.
she’s making dinner plans.
(were my responses recorded?)
Would I know my own voice?
under more stable conditions, we’ll be having sushi.
a video of us, dining.
love film ruined / decayed
It’s the right place but wrong week to find her.
black lace billowing in empty stores. a gothic absence, wires dangling from ceilings, powerless.
phone losing signal
“honey, where are you?”
stumbling down narrow staircase to monochromatic main street.
There’s heavy rain and tarmac, seen through white noise and static.
“the sound of storms can be so beautiful…”
I think she’s laughing.
It’s getting harder and harder to hear her.