BUFFET here at the edge of the thing where the skin flap turns back up and catches on clothing, hair and nails the aperture will not close at all regardless of the tapping and pressing
blonde wood with a raised grain under the forearm so that the first trickles slip neatly into the grooves and skirt the knots on the way to the far edge
an image, photo falling, word falling, picture falling,  the sea lapping at the blonde sand in neat rivulets a red headscarf against the blue of the sand an Italian flag in the top of the truncated cone the distant sails
a ridge presented by the folded edge of the newspaper
the white page becoming
first orange then red

and on

fourteen tubes of oil paint
and three of acrylic,
tops off
paint in slabs and ridges and cylinders
one black smear as if the heel of a hand had been slammed down into the
lead tube

a high plateau of the deepest black
surrounded by a scarlet sea

next the inevitable
fucking still life
bottle

eye dimming against image falling
the yard
in the cold summer with people
sat around the battered table

blonde faces against the moss of the wall

a cat washing a paw on the steps

word falling image falling
the wine spilt on the surface
hands dart down like birds
to lift the glasses and the cigarettes
out of the way of the steady red flow

a single head thrown back
liquid staccato laugh from red lips sharp white teeth

image falling
word falling
a review of the work
intemperate, incurious, corrosive

the first sheet begins to flap thickly onto the tiles beneath the table
a sea singing in the head
a high whine
with the sound of the sea sucking
a mountain of pebbles back out
into its vast brine hole

ah fuck it ah fuck it
eye dims lids fall bottle spins
blood blood blood
I am in blood steeped in so far
that should I wade no more
returning were as tedious as go over