Untitled- Rie Marsden

hung in air, the

alveolar, absorb

oxygen and what

that cigarette

remnants release

and flat, yeast

ferment malt

consume it all to

dispel, add hops to

taste, those clothes

strewn and piled

high, he always

would be kept

company by

traces that were

left by other men

other women

and was held by

those, as if it were

an embrace, wore

the memory of

them that had once

lain and occupied

his space, replete

with images pasted

on walls, that were

of some cerebral


importance, the

males together

read out poetry

love, mundanity

strange, she slept

under linen, when

cotton concealed

her nude, then

and had not

cared, or had to

endure, that his

kept the sweat of

other women

worn and warm

while her space

was devoid, and

calmed her, in

the flush

placement of

each, select

object that she

owned, all

possessed, were

to be phototropic

and turned towards

light, a sensation

she experienced

by this was a bliss

beyond compare

she a submissive

to the compulsive

order set in her

own cognition, an

object she retained

a plastic carrier

fuchsia, company

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The Bower Monologues


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