Two Hundred and Twenty-Eight.


Izzy circle


shackled to the back of a beamer’s a bike
a bike just returned from a full-day hike,
huffing and puffing, it’s spokes tired out
this beastie mountain machine has sure got clout

she’s queen of the rough tracks,
a saint of the outback
but sadly today is not her day
cos someone strapped her to the back of the car the wrong way


Sarah circle


Clytemnestra floats in the bedclothes
smelling the prison lying beside her, sleeping
and reeking of blood and sweat and sweet hot musk
which repels her most when she forgets herself
and is, for a moment, half tantalised.
she claws up her fingers and traces her nails
an inch from this throat, an inch from his eyes
and imagines the bellow he’d loose
if she let her hands fall



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