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At age three I wanted to sell roasted chestnuts. At three and a half to teach dance. By age four I wanted to be a doctor, but not any old doctor our family doctor doctor Durand
with his beard
my stock has dwindled
I look for the invisible in the invisible fitting pieces together like a good ghost story. That’s the way it goes. And I can’t imagine each piece moving under my instruction or talking to each other
No. We live in a world of memorial windows where volumes co-exist like cowboys and indians
Dead from the worrying
As strange accents come up through the floor we run as far as we can ignoring the obvious because it must mean something else
but if I keep going I’ll get angry with God
And then comes to the brain
the oblivious condition
Too soon it becomes clear
I have been imagined by dogs
Knocked out by the sun and starved of themselves
Thankfully I have you today
My lime green chinchilla
Fairytale Princess Head
It’s not because they offer any connection in themselves that I take each box outside. It seems like I’ve no choice in the matter and I can put no real distance between us. So I do just that taking little comfort in the parts or details that can’t be worn at the same time and on the same parts of the body.
I go to the pond and unpick my hem.
We were beginning to be too old to know if what we were seeing had knocked us off our bikes. It’s something we share
With girls doing the paper round afraid of getting too close to the black door. They shout at you as you ride past on your own terms alone and only slightly lost but it’s better than being dead and you take the final bend right out of existence further than the things we looked at yesterday
Shells and cream portcullises with their mistakes built in
At that moment
there is just enough time to look up and see your back wheel spinning
The firmament in its groove with you a new needle
I keep sucking
Kelly Evers said she’d give you a ride like that any day of the week
And you have to wonder where it comes from
if there’s time
otherwise you might as well be catching chestnuts in your mouth and calling them frogs.
Duncan White lives and works in London where he writes and teaches film and literature.