Cold aerial framed by cloud breaking light. Standing on roof tile, a scarecrow perched on a ledge. Below, a silver Nissan remembers to be patient. But it is hard to resist the temptation of tarmac. The houses do not share this feeling. They spend much of their time playing family. The black paths have no love for tyre marks. My eyes are not for driving down these roads that pass quiet neighbourhoods in a monochrome existence of cars and aerials.

This greyscale cage was only made for

one

A form

Maya could                                              never touch

Cocaine                         white skin

Framed

by black folds

Snorted

through fingertips

(The high never wore off)

A per-

fect canvas of stark contrast

Black

white

grey

Touched

by a haunting smile

That leaves the eyes

half closed

the teeth like

pearl gravestones

Worst of all the crease between a

feline nose

And a soft lip

I can still taste the

Wet

And remember the words

“It’s my job to make your life difficult”

But the photograph is not

her

The plastic foil doesn’t feel like her at all

It misses

everything:

The ever so slight bunching of flesh

Above her hips

Her stately posture so frequently impaired

By a laugh like trickling water

Black tresses soft as silk

Falling into my eyes

Over her shoulders

Butterfly wings brush her wrist

And the rhythm of her voice

The tinkle of a glockenspiel

Are all replaced

by

Cars & Aerials