rumbling, Darting, arm’d to the windows

It came in an noun

cing arrival. He was sat there, seated on clipped feathers.

What was the name? A ray

of something, maybe someone.

He told Chemosh a good place.

A lush walled placed to go. A grove

you could heal yourself in, lie to yourself in.

Red, white Blue colours brushed into 

banners, in the station.

It was just a human[e] thing, no thing warlike

about sex. Simony, not sex. No creation from it. We can [anatomy] ‘t/

No gold, no touch, no midas

no sins, null empathy,,,, no touching palms

only three fingers, silver in touch, 

pale breaths misted into a glaze and now, in

purgatory. No light refracts from pearls here. The con

crete grove cannot bend, refracted

terracotta earth doesn’t exist in purgatory.

He wonders too, like all of us, 

is it a writhing touch or is there a morning

to see, food to eat, bread to break

What do all the rest do

every morning-after is another level 

to descend to purgatory

morning after/or the night later

Perhaps sleeping together in the same depths is

What people strive for

Chemosh wouldn’t know

same bed lies vacant now

The annunciatior. Alight for your sins. 

That’d be funny, shoulda got something more than a brick to record it

No halos for people alighting or departing.

Maybe everyone here has a taste but no bed or no idea of-

-to do to eat/after or even before.

This is what everyone else is doing he

re in this concrete hell. To descend to heal

to lie. At least the seven trees, the ray or what

ever he’s called said. He said, remembered and was like

look Bosch, It’s In Tottenham.

…

Mohammad Shah is a writer based in the North of the United Kingdom, and occasionally in London. He writes mainly essays, fiction and poetry.