It’s the depth charges, Jon,
the underwater butterflies
that turn nuclear when fed
to the undercurrents.
This is a carousel in an
amphitheatre in an amphibian’s
beating heart, and you’re
the spawn we nurtured.
We’ve kept things whispered,
so far, don’t you think?
Kept our voices at a level
lower than that of the dusk.
I am Auster’s detective
searching for Kent who
has helped Kent team
up with a guy called Auster.
We are the spy and the
saboteur, and we are trying
to keep thing Guðless
from the Eyðileggingomb.
– Aaron Kent
Apologies for being out of town of late,
the town in question being [gestures to his mind].
I was in exile, struck off as a reprobate,
and only gained re-entry when the gates weren’t manned.
I hoped, of course, to find the place a dire state,
the law books full of damned fool statues to amend,
the streets aghast with rubbish and inanimate,
but no such luck. Things hummed. My absence went unmourned.
I took another name and job. I manned the gate
and listened for your whispers. Being thus marooned
inside myself, however, all the inchoate
and half-said things unpick me – all the me I’ve mained
gets snarled up with the not-me, and I wait. I wait
for this, for that, a card, the dark, my pants, my end.
– Jon Stone