a transcript translated

This is based on an audio (murder) found in Myra Hindley and Ian Brady's suitcase.

blades that cut ghostly slits in the horizon's piss,
a shovel with cherry and chocolate icing,
a torn rag and a tape recorder.




bullied clothes forced to leave trembling, quivering toy with tears
a set of wailing stairs and telltale hinges that groan the child's pulse
a harsh hand, or four, with a promising wake.




ever-dry teeth burnt against the scarf's rage
'few threats here and there, babyblue cotton blushing its fear
a peppered sprinkle of excuses to leave the flare of the
unkind.




lemon doused laughs on ever-whinging body of cat's cream
hazelnut threads banished from scalp, arms, legs and irked labia curtains
the fine dining on crunchy Cabernet cloth of silk and
melted marble.





it was only our wet with blood dream and reality


shut up, she says
to the wild olive in question,
or ill forget myself and hit you one.


now, though; that olive's mouth is already occupied.
the sun wipes its last crumbs on mouth away
on the night's dandruffed navy quilt.