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11/27/2009 6:39:07 AM
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Upturned bottles once lined with military order on dusty, termite-rotten shelves. Fingerprints, clear spaces of use, caught by the shafts of daylight through pin-holes where nails have been. A puddle of spilt pain, beneath an upturned bench. Life, wasted in boozy stench lies forgotten, punished for excess, while determined creatures march with hunger towards rotten snacks. Dirt's secret world survives in semi-darkness. Corrugated walls, rusting-red and brown. Drips where rain had been, left tracks as if guiding to the next place. A dark, dank, mud-bed suitable for long soft round things to slither and slide through eyes now closed. Still focused on nightmare dreams, gone before. Frances Macaulay Forde
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