Stimulant line-ending words stolen from “Whuff,” by Roo Borson That evening we scarfed oyster flesh to excess, lifted cloth to dab our lips with, hoped this grub would get us lucky. Lucky. That’s what parlance claims it is to wrestle, garmentless and sleepless, under a naked sky or in a room strewn with souvenirs of love, artifacts of bygone pas de deux; to moan or squeal or snort, shatter the hourglass, disperse the sands until their blizzard pocks the neighbours’ eardrums. Oyster juice makes tendrils on our cheeks. The catechism we recite but can’t quite learn by heart is painted on the wall. Excuse yourself and slip from bed and read it. May God bless you, I intone, still hoping God is wakeful.
© Peter Norman