Capital News

In a blind, I was looking up at the greyed wood throne where the interchangeable kings sit, up there in the tree, to shoot passersby in their heads, the ones enjoying the path. I'd never seen one up there. During the sacred days their weapons echo off the icegrey wall of the sky, and the sound of bodies falling into fresh snow is a kind of shushing, quieting the echo that fell them. Silence listened in on us as we hid. Because we had to hide. The snow mute blast, the shushing fall. Never a voice.
Pull a thick rope down from the trap attic door of the sky, a thick rope made of warm brown shit. Knotted in places, to assist climbing. Steaming rope of crap, in the snowcold air. Guaranteed not to tear in half, a hand will make an impression in it, making climbholds easier. Who told you your studio was up there? Who told you? Go on. You'll find what's what when you shove your head up through its hole. The view grows more breathtaking as the climb continues. The interchangeable kings in their grey twobyfour thrones falling away, high up in their trees, the flashing of their muzzles now like occasional stars in the polluted night. The globe a screen with the sound off.

When I wanted to turn to you is when I decided to leave.

They'd like to call this a dream. I understand. I would too. But if it was, they wouldn't have cared in the first place.