mark, a shadow, here – the bathroom tiles, some grout
missing, the dripping shower, my arse reflected very tiny
in the chrome, the broken banister, the pale green carpet
with its tea stains, mud stains, jizz stains, some of which
are mine, the rest were pre-existing, no, I couldn’t tell
you which were which, the mirror in the bedroom where
I’m posing with a mastic gun that I could press against
your ear or in your mouth and seal you up, the peeling
laminate, the gappy plastic floorboards, waxy grime
within the gaps, the muck and fluff and crumbs and hair
within the grime, the wardrobe with its broken drawer, its
dodgy rail, its wire hangers, bent and tangled, here – a
video of a woman getting stuck and fucked inside a
similar one, though in the caption it says armoire, ah ha –
moonlit vintage château fantasy, the open bin, its broken
lid my bitter boyfriend claims that he could fix, the faded
sofa that I guess was plump and clean and red but isn’t
now, a thousand arse marks, thousand food stains, few
pulled threads across the worried arm, please find
attached the creaking bed where I have dressed as you,
moved-in that bitter boyfriend, kicked him out, kept his
deposit, har har har, see here – the burn marks on the
ironing board, the cover with its jaunty font that now
reads – YO EASE ME UP – a covert photo of a
minibus driver’s flaccid dick, the leaky washing machine
that chants for georgia, georgia, georg– and no one else,
the bulky fridge that clunks and shudders as though
coming violently, three bare bulbs, a dusty paper shade,
the final passage from Our Exploits at West Poley – no I
can’t move past it – shut up – look, those boys succeed,
they fix the river back in place forever, live their lives, feel
fine, but what, you ask – you should ask – of the
neighbouring town, left dry and droughty aren’t they
thirstier for having tasted water for an afternoon – fuck
them – eternal bumpkins rasping at the corner of my
thoughts, yes, true, my piss is dark, my lips are dry –
attached, attached – my WANT could drive me to a cave
with some explosives, to your office with a brick, to your
house holding a bottle of white spirit and a match, but
no, but no, but here – have thirty photos of the Artex
