There’s nothing along this old shore but ghosts, no matter what the old man said, I see no treasure, no pleasure, no myth and no glee. The sun pounds a tattoo in my brain and it roasts
In the basement mixing medicine, next to a bathtub loaded with nitro-glycerine. Glass beakers alphabetised and shattered, our faces are beaten and battered.
He bullshitted it as the idea of simple maths, trying to explain away faith in fractions, disasters in decimals, mayhem in multiplication. The list goes on, I digress,
When I broke my arm, he was by my side. A long grey trunk, and big ol’ sympathetic eyes. Floppy ears to fan my feverish face, and a little hand to hold my heart in place.