Poison Ivy

The woodboards groaned, as I

Heel-toed my way over and up

The stairs and over, through

the dust, through the damp dank

smell of rustling ancient pages, and

slow side stares as I squeak, heel-

toe, heel-toe over to

my desk.

I slowly whisper out a

long exhale, and it leaks through

the stiff stale air, echoing

in a heavy drape over and

around me. Quick breath in

and people shift, eyes circling and

returning to a heavy rest on

their post-post-extra-post-modern-sub-division-new-historic-gaucho-marxo-heideggarian-semi-existentialist lull, luminated interrogated

by a sweaty stinky yellow light.

I sit there open book, facing

sideways out the peephole into

the vast greyness of

concrete, sky, cloud and rain, squinting

for signs of poorblackmothers crunching

across broken vials of opium

wars in afganhistani president is

impotent in the face of

pandemic flu horror fear glazing

over the

sirens of Emma Woodhouse.

but so the sirens ring.

and so the spires stand, tall

withdrawing into the slow

swaying whispering ivy that

hushes as it goes over, down

down over and


One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.