rendering you invisible by simply

breathing onto the glass

or drawing a heart around you as though

it might last

longer than a fairground fish

I could do either

but I spend my days

chalking my guts into the paving stones

and piling them like papers,

professionally bound

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a night too quiet

yet, even in it’s silence,

not quite enough for me

now in my head those words were read

by Richard Burton

but then she came calling in the hours

when there aren’t yet enough digits on the clock

and I ignored the advice of William S Burroughs, or some other I forget,

and told her to fuck off, leave me to the monotone

test card transmission, t...

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