Nathan Anderson


Visitation, a city.


Stupefied. Again. Yes.

This smokestack ambrosia, taken in. Take it in.

Clench your jaw, you know it is yours.

And not yours. And not yours.

You came to me six hours ago. And also.

Never before.

Yes. Yes.

You came to me twelve hours ago. And also.

Biting me, biting me.

Taking the flesh from my bones.

Consuming, expanding. Allowing this entropy.

Slipped to kiss and not kiss.

Slipped to break your arm and leg and

And you were afraid it was your spine but

But it wasn’t your spine, was it?

It wasn’t your gold, was it?

It wasn’t your name, was it?

It wasn’t my name, was it?

It wasn’t this city, was it?

No, no, not this city. This city with its billows of smoke and screaming skulls and screaming children and screaming dogs and cats and cars. This city with its empty womb, with its empty mouth, with its empty ribs, with its empty hands. This city with its nonsense taste, without a tongue, without a mouth. This city with its sirens and no church bells. Without songs and only auto-tuning yelps of pain or ecstasy. Beat, beat, bass and bass. I love this city, that’s what I said. I love this city, that’s what you said. Take it, take my hand, take my mouth, take my lungs, take my leg, take my ability to walk, take my ability to speak, take my language, take my air. I do not need it in this city.



Exclamation: The hunted elephant

You stand so well within your particle rotation. Fixated on the dust you wear as cloth to clothe your skin and teeth.

You who have no bearing in the starlight gaze, and upturn elevation in your mirth.

Consider this your birth, consider it for death.

You told me of your mother’s kiss. How she loved you, how you loved her. Again you wear the cloth.

Again you stand within your claustrophobia. How far it breaks to find the rolling waves. Bathed in saliva, found and jointly owned.

The elephant returns your sight.

…

Clandestine. Reprehensible. Immaculate. Reprehensible.

Taken within shards you sharpen against orchestration, contrived to bring you harmony. Perpetual in its motion of dexterity and articulation. Seen as stars and breaking glass.

Return your mother’s kiss. So wonderful you tell me as you sing and plead for greater unity.

You see the copper pot, how it shakes and makes the liquid clean and clear and drinkable.

The elephant returns your luck.

…

You speak to me with so much salt.

‘How have you been?’

‘Well.’

‘How have you been?’

‘Well.’

The elephant returns your love.




Nathan Anderson is a writer from Canberra, Australia. He holds a Bachelor of Writing Degree from the University of Canberra and is a graduate of the Oxford University Creative Writing Summer School. His work has previously appeared in Gone Lawn.
 
 
previous page     contents     next page