unbearable sadness moving in to your left arm
making it’s new house a home
your left arm a tenement for longing and loss
feeling loose and heavy always
dragging through viscous air
until you can’t bother trying to raise it
starting to tighten
starting to tighten and then also to lighten
one day looking down and realising your arm is gone
your whole left arm martyred and gone
but so is the sadness
so is the weight
In Naples, nobody has attempted to rob me, and I feel a strangely odd about that.
In Naples, two Italian teenagers pash on the seafront like they’re trying to leap into each other’s faces, like fish.
In Naples, the light is softer, or I’ve been told so many times that the light is softer that I think that it is. It could be pollution.
In Naples, they are dancing on the streets at the seaside.
In Naples, all the pizza is as good as they say.
In Naples, all the black men are selling awful white handbags to awful white tourists on the sides of the roads.
In Naples, the trains all have plastic seats like the ones from my primary school.
In Naples, the dogs are throwing fur in the air as they scratch all the fleas in their coats.
In Naples, there is washing strung in the streets and a woman throwing water from her balcony’s rails.