The EUh had so many stars.

The EUh had so many stars.

The mountain was coming. But the sky was dirty.

Your crown is slipping, the red sun-star.

Small pet in your arms doing your bidding in the trees: it’s not your fault.

Arms out to the side are better than in front.

The mirror crack’d.

Elusive friend, a reflection of the coat in the glass.

I thought I heard a sound. The drops are not enough.

Playful ball into the water – coat colliding colours with the saturated palate.

Crouching like a luge.

In the church looking up at a different mirror.

Donald is looking to the side. What does it mean? He looks young.

All the images are mixed up reflections: coat, slide, lightbox, halo in the water. Eyes panning above the magnifier. Zipper frame actualising button. Have I cut myself on the digits – a frock not hewn, too young to be dead? At the beginning, it isn’t fair on all of us.

She is still looking at Mary.

Can those inks bleed like the background of my house in my head?

Running, yelling, calling – we don’t see what happened.

Retrieving her from the water – DON’T!

Look, can’t see through blue cataracts. Blue and yellow cataracts.

Regina in the mirror: I see cataracts in the mirror!

Sister: She likes triptychs because they are like mirrors.

Joan [pouting] : I am too tired for this.

She is still running along the line – the border – staring down at me as if she knows something but yet is just a dream of mine confounded by the hearts on the ground.

Donald doesn’t believe in the dead coming back. Even though Julie has beautiful eyes.

He raises his voice in a crescendo, mock tactics, military on exercises.

War of curly hair.

Three on a stage in profile, different heights, the medium filled with presence.

Both dead and also living through this woman’s lungs. Expiring.

He is a man not afraid to show his teeth.

Like a repeat frame on frame – gesticulating technologically.

And he turns – always turning, turning means something.

Camera launches at the tap-dancing fool.

Comisario: What is it you fear?

Foreigners.

Warned me I was in danger because the dead are going to lead you to the dead.

Cradle the medium’s face like a manger. Soft skin – permeable – able to tell the weather just by looking at it.

Too much flailing about. Partial works and strange hair.

The stairs at an angle of misunderstanding say it all in their arabesques in the dark. Shadow of permanence. Stay here, stay here.

Priest: I hope it’s not another murder that makes you climb that unsecured ladder like a fool.

Who is laughing now? My white gloves are being sullied on the wood surface.

And old Hollywood’s lights are behind me like syrup dripping kelvins.

Every now and then the lens is a halo. Bubbles of cameo.

I will open my mouth for you. And she will shut hers for you like the water. Cause he stares in disbelief – wondering if starting a chain reaction that can’t be stopped, might just be enough to realise these incumbent hooligans are dead turning in their graves.

The spinning ball on the water animates the place that swallows her plotline.

I am not sure what a baptism in Venice would be like in the canal, next to an oligarch’s yacht drawling expensive fumes.

But this arch has a floating piece of paper with nothing written on it.

Falling frame, falling table, on high, on low, dinner will fall on top of her, and a whole set will fall on top of him.

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