It was the best night's sleep ever. A deep sleep screen split in half by background noise; one of me as still as coma the other taken under like I really wanted to be that creature in A Company of Wolves. Let's just rough things up a bit so it doesn't look like the first time. Hekate got the blame but some kind of collective claustrophobia or rivalry between Essex and Kent, they would say they got it worse, shook our low autumn skies through a maniac night.
Imagine a Nissan hut with two ways out but then you realise another Nissan hut is over the first one; facia boards all trying to outdo each other with promises of ideals born in the 1960s. Rattling the shackles but when those so obvious slogans turned into framework a ribbon of air made swishy little dance moves between steel and wood, lowering the volume to, 'you can't see me but look at what I can do.'
The sunsets were impossibly real; all those artists trying to get it right while I wanted to up the contrast and get it wrong. Some days when I felt like I was walking on the world I told myself I should hate our housing estate and towns with concrete box coats over metallic bones because they're ugly against nature. Personality splits between shelter and oppression swelling from the guts of the earth conspiring with the sky.
Hurricane life in London, she circled and diagonaled indoors as if some underworld Goddess had come to change the décor. Rehearsals by charging up Victoria Avenue she made movement in a skirt difficult with a hard slap on the legs by an art case. It was truly scary outside the museum all that history in storage; while a fast road goes and goes don't even think about bad breaks.
Seeming captive everything fell in on itself. Trees and masonry gated roads and the Southend Victoria line was blown too weird for trains delivering us to Leda and the Swan, or any other mythical trickster. So it was romantic destruction while teenage girls were safe and asleep; lucid dreamers fell in love with a vandal.