One Hundred and Forty-Five.


Izzy circle


inside my chest there is a small dog chasing its own tail
frantically, a whirlwind of furrowed brow and gnashing teeth


Sarah circle


As the first snow of the season fluttered in the dawn
He found that the world had lost all its colour
The pastel riots of the past, the velvet and satin and frothy chiffon
The daftly bubbling syrupy cocktails
The floral piped icing so sweet your teeth sang
The rich draped folds of a woman’s gown as she panted, pink and scented –
All gone. All the laughter and chatter and tinkling crystal all lost to the wind
And now nothing but the snow and the concrete and the vicious barbed wire
And the stark white men in their thick black suits
Standing stony in their dead, matte leather jackets
Clutching their dead, matte metal pistols
All focused intently on his gently mumbling heart
Plodding faithfully away beneath his drab, thinning shirt.
He eyed them all calmly, and found that he ached not with fear
But with a sort of terrible disappointment
In them, in everything, in these days grown old
And as the bullets churned in their chambers, he let out a sigh
And thought, there is nothing in the world quite like the sadness
Of a consummate gentleman in an ungentlemanly age



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