16 July 2025
19 July 2025
a translation issue
600 heartbeats later
this prerogative and three towers distant or an island at night where the dead don’t look as much
written on or in an eggshell as in the white itself, transmuting genes, minds, their order while alive, all yours to care for, dispose, despair of
the dispossession of the story being your favoured glowering arc
as in a mummy spun by the gateways of the live and busy knocks of priests, kings, acolytes
with 600 chapters behind them and many hours to go
let’s see what scribes can do to make the most of you while
eve’s chrysalis spins a speedboat along blue pencilled lines
of cloud and smoke a motor hums and water slaps the bow
the disorder of the wake spells a stream of digits while the glint of power
lets none of these cohere
no centre holds when what we’re dead of won’t allow us life as once we thought it was