Posted in Antarctica

Smokescreen

An anxiety born in the Garden of Eden
the witness’s dilemma
presence can be trespass – even if legitimate.
Whisper to God
or wink at the devil?

In the first years we lived in temporary accommodation
a double skin canvas tent
wooden floor
wooden partitions
diesel stove
a death trap nicknamed the crematorium.

The rule was no smoking.
Absolutely forbidden.
Never.
Ever.
Serious consequences for any transgressor.

Saturday night
party night
the bars open until 1.00 a.m
the crematorium thought to be empty
except the anonymous misfit on the Sunday dawn shift.
10:30 p.m.
when the night still had octane
the party deserters, yet to
they came to her room.

The scent of fulfilment coiled in the air
distinctive to a tobacco non believer
to inform or not to inform?
Gillian never smoked any other time
and was quiet
except what preceded smoking
prolonged, bed pounding, wall shaking
lung emptying sex.

For the back story click Backstage

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Author:

Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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