Written by Jack Andrew Cribb

There is a deep belly ache in the blood of some. Atlas tells me it’s just magnets being drawn home, like steers roped by ancient streets, washing lines of bright pastel linen soaked in honey. Atlas says it’s just the home far away, that you don’t settle until your feet start to move, to vibrate, until the deep raw golden yolk gushes onto the floor, scooped out by pieces of ginger and Catalonian basalt dyed sunset.

My skull is carved with street names, post codes, awash with the fairytale of Nørrebro, Plaza Mayor, Näsijärvi, Dartmoor dusk and sheep dung. On Midsummer’s eve I walked to a bakery and bought pastries filled with dates and olive oil, I watched the sky turn black and the brick of Castel Sant’Angelo weep and turn to red jelly, the beggar playing a sad song on the lute as Roma burns in my gut.

A Jewish girl offers sex in the city of canals, she talks of tam tams on the Sabbath, a candle is passed like grief at midnight in the kitchen of beloved ones, dark warm beer is drunk in the Canadian part of Piazza San Marco, black anti-climb paint and pesto is added to the Cosmopolitans of London. Memories are the acid of the present, taunting me like gargoyles with their forked tongues out.

This pen is a prison, the work of the slave of the portal, the Ardibil carpet is losing its ink and becoming frayed. Atlas rearranges every thousand years or so, giving me no chance to see. His edges are undefined like the meaning of terror. My foot taps to exist, taught discomfort still. So it goes for me, everlasting life with nowhere to spend it.


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