• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 03
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Rifle (n./v.)

Life does not
stand, a loaded gun.
(Dickinson was wrong.) Bang.
Never even knew what.
Hit you.
Wanna pull that tie, quiff on fire boi.
I know you know what to do with that muzzle. I know
it's (not) a mask.
What you hunt, you become? Not that simple. Not black-and-red. Read my jeans: it's blue in the morning and this is doing.

I learned it from my [ ]. I learned it from TV. I learned it in my body, from the fur on my feet to my flaming skull. Let me show you.
Lesson 1: The Grip
Lesson 2: Staring Down the Barrel
Lesson 3: Safety/Trigger
Lesson 4: The Rifle Repeats
& in the other hand, a placard that reads:

Not the Academy's poverty porn.
a tool for whetting a scythe; a plunder, a sacking, a spoliation; each of the set of spiral grooves giving to the projectile a rotatory movement on its own axis; to carry off as booty, to plunder, to steal; to play dice, to gamble, esp. for a stake;


Rifle (n./v.)

You don't even have to go hunting for it. Plunder. It's in every word. Language a spoliation, shot through with violence.

For a stake. She'll pretzel that barrel and plant a tree in your heart.
Check, mate. Its paler twin, repeating. Neighbouring. Blocs.

This is a map. This is demographic. Vigilante, I swear it. Property = theft, etc.

Rifle on both sides.
Right, who's out there? Who's coming for you, toward you?


Can't stop night with a bullet, though, can you?
Monday, 20 Jan, 2014.



(Is horizon nothing?)
When I dream you are home with me. Standing in the kitchen, holding the gun. Standing in the shower, holding the gun. I kneel at your feet, take off your jeans.

Put them in the washing machine. Tenderly. The things they have seen.
You tell me about the Winchester Mystery House. Built with 'the Gun that Won the West', its echoes through 160 empty rooms where a widow waits in séance. Staircases that lead nowhere, designed to trap the spirits that haunt her. A shining, you could say.

Or 'rifle': a spoliation.
How the story starts. How we long for ghosts to rise up, for justice. How afraid we are. How we can't but hunt them down.
Imagine the uprising, you say. In the night, among the pines. I stand, but not guard. Respect. Safety on, barrel down. I let night take my face, so I can see.


Rifle (n./v.)

This is their night. It sets my hair on fire. (Dickinson was right.) The staircase that leads nowhere leads here: outside the walls of the mystery. Let it come down.
Rotatory movement. I turn and you are gone. I turn and you are here.