They do not know she is not coming.
I count: one, two, three, four, five of them.
I know she stutters.
In the hotel room spiders are crawling the corners.
I have seen woodlice in the cooked meats.
Newspapers are mouldering under damp carpets.
The flesh is dangerous.
A thousand news channels haunt the television.
I make a collage of VHS tape.
They do not know she is not coming tonight.
I am a fleshbulb.
I stuttered my way through a bottle of Pinot Noir.
I am a dozen disguises in guestbooks and on CCTV.
This is an exclusive written under damp carpets.
