"As his glass eye tinkled its way gently to the bottom of its tumbler of Listerine, lying atop its pupil like some queer fragile optical mollusk of some sort, she spoke, again most honeyedly."
—@harryskeeler.bsky.social
"Wholegrain Entitled
I came to be a gift, take a treat home
to keep and gobble underneath the stares
of all the retching groupies whilst hands
are sentries on the smalls of backs.
The fingers on the waists of maids,
I get laid and it’s simply out of adoration,
they don’t love any of my ways or means,
they have beans for mighty rights.
I am wholegrain, the spine of middle glan,
walking incoherent in the wine,
my own star shining – love is only
something that I know in the bathroom.
Born a twenty thousand league,
I follow laws I don’t believe an ass
to kiss, and trash the moves of delicates,
brushing hair back from their lashes.
I can only be like this, change is not
a place I know, I only walk alone
in bald tuxedo and with good long bones
all full of vertigo, lanes outside my hometown.
Pity the previous who open their purse,
witness the wails of young, glacial girls,
life is so priceless to those who ain’t earned it,
swished like a mudlark shaking silt from his spade.
I own the coins that you found in the marsh,
at last, it’s a whole lotta faith in this world,
google my name and you find lists of bruises,
presents from women found dead in the sea."
—Tessa Foley via @tessafoley.bsky.social
Christmas 1948, Trafalgar Square.
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