Stride Magazine - www.stridemagazine.co.uk

 

CATEGORY
LEFT UNFULFILLED

Not in this room. Not on this life. Never in this house. No way this is going down.

Until it's fallen over. Fall under. Thrown over. Through.





DANCE TO THE
DEATH OF THE NOVEL

It's gotten calmer. They've stopped asking light to take it off. All off. So heavy the breath. As if a tree rolled onto rib-box. Rasp of blade against bar.

Eye to keyhole notes friction. No ear for second law of thermodynamics. Knocks against wall. Nose tones grindstone, recovers and preaches conservation of matter.

So light on feet. Once the crawl. Now the swing. Gesture for romance heading out the door.





ON ACCOUNT
OF WRY NUMBERS

Click, no hum. A dead line along the dress, where sequence could not be found. But rather fond of fabric. Approach as curtains in wind. Always wind.

Less on downdraft, the upturn. Syncope on menu. One less, two less. Fingers drum. Where dinner could be. Better flounder than famine.

Long dress where skin. No connection without ground. Answer as wind this lying.





ODDS, FALLEN,
CRACKED TO BITS

Not enough spilled. What cannot be put in order. Always crying at the unwrapped end. Who makes who doesn't.

Sick of one thing and another. Take up body from inside out. When on the outside show. Be proud of tremor tearing strata nowhere safe to walk.





OVER EASY
HOLD THE BRAINS

Baked and irreparable. Downing nips of some coolant over coat and butter. But not without scenting seized.

Localized here to nub strewn. You still rake?

Of all the friends in the world to eat, mind to ingest. Put an egg on it and call it even less what used to make a ruckus on the half-shell.

Let go this date and aged purse no wicked wind pursues and for which the tongue transpires.



Gian Lombardo 2002