Monday, 8 February 2016

Posting in this Office - The Archive Backlog 19.

There’s a queue in the post office, four or five people in front of me.

I am sixth.

The woman behind me is seventh.

I’m about 90.

She’s about 30.

She takes a chair from the desk over at the side – the desk where you can fill in complicated forms.

She sets the chair behind me and sits on it.

As we inch forward she inches the chair forward.

I guess she feels old.

The Archive Backlog explained.

Sunday, 7 February 2016

The Stiral Sparecase - A Fifth Interlude in an Archival Backlog

not seville

The house isn’t green.

It’s not made of wood either.

It’s newer than I expected and the staircase is stronger.

But it is spiral.

I didn’t think of that.

There’s more light too; so that, with the white makes it a lot more spacious than I had forseen.

You could swing more than one cat in here.

If you had any cats.

Outside the city is grey; this I expected. The red lights on the old TV tower are the only colour.

At night everything else is dark except the block of stark white neon to the west.

Burning brightly.

If not obscenely.

Saturday, 6 February 2016

Old Words - The Archive Backlog 18


Old words.

Stored in boxes and left to rot.

No one is watching so you can open one and pilfer, or take an armful.

But it will not help you.

Each one of us is limited at birth.

An allowance that can not be exceeded.

Once said, you are done.

The Archive Backlog explained.

Friday, 5 February 2016

Old Party - The Archive Backlog 17


This house is old; it has been thirty-six years since I stood in this room.

I don’t remember there ever having been a party here. Though surely there was.

The main room is empty except for people drinking, dancing talking.

If you climb the stairs you will leave the party behind. Though a friend, Tim, will follow you.

As you climb higher the rooms become smaller.

The stirs become older.

And the house becomes more intimate.

The stairs are old too.

Victorian, covered in chipped cream gloss paint.

They are smooth to the touch, easy to the eye.

The rooms are full of old armchairs, heavy with cushions.

The beds are loaded with eiderdowns.

In each room the party is further away and the number of people standing and talking less.

But still your friend follows.

Until you reach the top of the house, a landing after a landing after a landing.

You are in the attic.

There is only room for the bed and the armchair.


And your friend.

Thursday, 4 February 2016

Moon Coral - The Archive Backlog 16


Imagine the most exotic place that you have never been – Africa perhaps.

Imagine that it’s night-time, but that the night-time is warm.

And imagine that there is a full moon.

The full moon reflects the purist of coral, and the night is so dark that all you can see is the brightness of that coral and the brightness in her eyes.

Eyes that are so bright so alive that they disturb the stillness of the night.

The night, which is so black.

But not as black as her skin where the moonlight plays in the coral of the necklace around her neck.

And with the earings in her ears.

A necklace made from the ocean of the night.

Earings made on the shores of daybreak.

Moon coral.

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