In one part of my brain a man wearing a tweed jacket rides a motorcycle round and round a Tudor house; in another, a ten year old child counts to ten looking for the perfect word to describe the lasting effects of an alligator taking his ten toes, three brothers and whoring mother back to the swamp to start a new life without him; in a third part there’s a spike so I laugh when I should cry and cry when I should laugh. In the fourth part is a corridor banked with windows overlooking fatty tissue that insists there is an I in there.
B.F.M.
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