• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 11
Image by


In my very last dream, it’s me and my lover
sitting at an airport bar. The final time we’ve
anchored our eyes into the walls. A solemn
statue is crying eternal tears onto cold, cruel
steel, an inscription telling us: the discobolus
of Clapham. Dusting powdered protein, he’s
running laps in the common to minor songs,
lullabies for hikes, for brunch hats and pink
gym vests. Maybe we’ll transform into marble,
leopards from crystal seas. Under dying stars,
kitchen lights, the loom spins, shouting “you
are still free”. Metal has contaminated the air:
now I am freezing my naked fingers, only to
protect glasses from the haunting of orange
peels. Making crimson drinks like the hunter
drawing blood from dying beasts. Reluctant,
ultimate offering for my lover who is holding
sunflowers, the corporeal gifts for a sleeping
demigod. He did not give his neck the blades
but his lips carried the warmth of a holiday.
Now in the ribbons of the rain, he must be
immortal too. I forget buzzcuts, cloakroom
queues, I let the clouds take me home to you.