By Alice Pickersgill
ed. Teodora Nikolova
A county clerk buried under thick white piles of dust , files of faceless names stacking ever higher up. A hypochondriac housewife continues with her brush, the boiler’s broken, water’s off, but still she sweeps the dust .
Clouds consuming cityscapes in 1930s news, dirt degrading, premature aging, a metal film of rust. Bleating crowds and restless men crooning sexy blues, whisky on the rocks in, rhymic trendy bars. Dying and rebirthing like a phoenix from an ashtray, spluttering in cigarettes and fumes from diesel cars.
Mothers freezing fluffy toys before their kids can play, a crowd of dust mites under foot, exterminated bugs.
Neurotic erotica of latex cleaning gloves, vibrant yellow protest beating limescale in ivory bathtubs. Air made into soup in sunbeam summer loves, weightless somethings twirling in to fairy lands of fairy dust .
Heavy hands on dust-brush handles, incomplete with competing with the steady march of dust. A steady march is incomplete without a place to go, basecamp in the distant ground where no more dust will show.