Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA
Melissa Spiccia | MELISSA SPICCIA

You’re A Gherkin Terry 2019

Time – holds, distracts.

Until it grows a thought.

Grass tufts cramp between heart valves.

The retreating tide bares.

A swan unfolds her neck towards the carp swimming against the current.

They won’t turn.

Not when leaves fall.

Not when night sighs carrying lies overhead, seducing in their sparkles.

Until dropped are their charades to reveal a deafening sight.

Silence ploughing through fate.

Indifferent to any plea or request.

I take refuge, cornering myself into a seat on the train.

‘“You’re a gherkin Terry and gherkins tend to be duller then cucumbers”. I overhear someone say. 

We decamp at the next stop. Make our way through army ants and phlegm dots.

There ahead fallen arches tow a body down the street.

People fork out into the road to avoid this man’s presence.

He turns. Our eyes abruptly meet.

His smile arriving with my heart in his teeth like a fox grinning with a maimed pet between its jaws.

It is then, that the sky turns itself empty onto the land and I recognise where I am.

 

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