Photo of a Fogo Art Corp studio, from Samsonov Familia.

(The audio test recording of the text below is here)

Internecine 4, or North.

I see her on the phone 
A public payphone at the underground station at those crossroads
you know
Bags at her feet.
Open-faced waiting.

If I had posted my love letter
Sent it north cold
It would have arrived days after hope had died
Days after made up conversations
Falling first in chaos then black hole void neat orderly files 

Still painful.

I had looked at the already-stamped postcard. The stamp I’d licked. I did not make a mark.

If you had looked up and down and beyond the glare
The sun may have warmed your face.

It may have blinded mole eyes dead
Your soul sucked out through hellish pain forever of never being alone again forever
The in between radio stations noise and open gaping mouths of sex fucks dribbling self everywhere


Blink again
You pretend you can’t see but I see 
Sear seek suck 
Broken hoover dust-tired
Not even whirlwind-sated 
Small lassoed twister jerk stuck small small soul
Smalltown soul lover – Let’s count out coloured beads, mark our time!


Crush diamonds drawn across thin skin once
Come once and again and whenever you want
Swallow big pills and dance
Throw everything down, off, bang goes the chair gone over, scrawl, crawl, ripped open fingers writing
Raw open face
More blood more guts 
More than fear is belief is –

Oh. That’s –
No belief. Belief’s not in this morning. Please try again later.

An exercise in burning oil out at sea: Matches. Fingers. Face. 
All the heavens above.

Copyright Vera Chok Jan 2013

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