James Veldon
I haven't slept in a week. Each day I'm less, my health decays, my disappearing stomach symbol of a sun in final eclipse. Every night I see you at the bar, a drink in your hand: the first and last picture, an image. I think in images, I can't remember what you said walking away your drink in your hand and I lost you in the crowd.

Morning fall asleep, afternoon wake up and wank. Never of you. I can't eat. Food sits in my belly like stones, hunger grips my ribs, moving a second behind me like when you wake up with a hangover and it rises behind you. I gave up acting it out, every time there was less. I supose it works like that.

Read my future in the cards and the crossbeam was black: the Queen of Spades reversed a symbol of my violence, the last card the two of Clubs. The last week of the winter, the lowest point.

It snowed tonight and I walked down to the moterway the ground was slick with it, I slid on the overpass and almost fell. There's less. Everyday it's colder I have a past of Hearts and Diamonds, the wish card always stays in the pack. I can't find it if I try. Asked who I was, the jack of Spades violent and imature boy, destroyer. Look for the nine of Hearts again, everything's black.

The snow is silence, when it falls you can't hear a thing.

First published: May 2000