Vellum

Oh cookies.

By Ian Lockerbie 2009 Split Oi oi!

By Ian Lockerbie Congleton rare, Congleton rare.

The ash over the carpark of Dean Row chapel funnels into the chimney of the furnace and solders onto my body.

I fold out the camera my grandfather gave me last April.

Pouring a glass of blackcurrant at my parents, I notice the rosemary bush, the size of my fist, on the window sill in its terracotta pot, and I remember telling them of when I stayed with Franz in Neunen last Autumn.

Some dogs are a ballache to walk, not Dennis.

On the edge of the Entrepot canal, under the boat crane, the monkeys are going off.

Mum asked me to ‘water the plains’ in a text and I can’t stop imagining myself with a watering can out on the Atacama salt plains under the stars.

I can’t blame the others.

I’ll make you a cup of tea while you stretch out and clear your eyes, shall I?

fish over travertine sand levitate the hunted pod emerge cocoon buried above a tree snow she chops wood blocks holding her baby court dreaming her teeth out the smoke flaps its wings

When lighting a cigarette you must hold the matchbox tight.