13th August 2019


Three floors made it up
to slouch carefully
with trembling wings
across my bed ,bookshelf ,
rug where I keep month-old
correspondence from the
government, work-shoes
& the audacity or courage
to rest neatly in the nook of-aha!-
toilet where the dust of
twelve-hundred showers
licks its fingers
to claw & spit; fragile
it tickles through the air
against me as I pee

& I go to grab it
—these fingers!—
but it slips thin as whispers
beside my cheek
so far from the street
so loose & now so pointless.

in envy, it bobs down the corridor
of my flat, so cute, I stare
& dream its way away.

A collection of writings, poems and stories by the anonymous author ~  contact

Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the Atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.
T H E   E V E N I N G   P A R T Y Virgina Woolf