Randolph
Healy
| Lá
le Bríde Bless all materials before construction. Keep them damp. Fold the second over the first, turn, fold, pull through, fold, throw it in the bin. Both girls wore thirty three pounds, detonated remotely. She did better, plaiting rushes for a man who lay on the ground to die which cross, corn dolly, god’s eye, was thereafter supposed to protect from fire. Let us forget and look each other in the eye, pupil, pupilla, little doll, and see our own selves mirrored in light-flecked convex darkness. Whose image is in whose image’s eye in a regress repeated beyond resolution for whoever’s first to blink to disappear? Vacuum Are there easier ways? If we plunged down an airless mine piercing the Earth we’d stop at the opposite side to rise again in forty two minutes. Forget about heat. There wouldn’t be a peep as we fell and rose again and again within a year two sets of bones falling and rising for what many would call forever. Speculation is such flimsy shelter. Hold tight my hundred trillion cells. No one yet knows how you stick together. Out-takes One must be limp a long time not to mob the tanned and maimed. Surround the de-nippled torso arms out as if no one was more willing unworked hands judged beautiful, whorls spiralling beyond naming then rubberneck a neck-wrung ex-sixteen-year-old, Munch-gape made of meconium as if she had shit her self, or someone sat on her while still warm. Don’t miss the Iron-age upper crust who’d mussed a coiff with French pine resin, to be attacked by nits and axe, everything from the diaphragm down still missing. A sign says they have no identity, peat having leached their DNA. Someone wonders how much they’d go for. A woman who ferried the torso by car, obsesses about arms reaching to get her. Finish with a pair of ex-male bonders, de-cocked, de-noodled, their own tripe as neckties to exit as altered as one who’s looked over a celebrity pickpocket’s wallet collection. >>>Bob Marcacci
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