Pigeon Blood Cabochon

by Kieran Devaney

what is the object at 15 minutes, or could even be glimpsed briefly, & watch it bloom outwards, landing softly flat back on the bed, when we know how easily any noble imperative can be weaponised, tubes of thick beige, blue & pink gloop, who has no knowledge of the email, rich brown sable glazed with silver, late clinging leaves fluttered in the wind, the scam seems so plain at this distance, i thought about it greedily all morning, & watch it bloom outwards, landing softly flat back on the bed, i knew in the dream i had made a mistake, in some room somewhere, lifted in chains from the sludge & into the air, muted, weary high-handedness

late clinging leaves fluttered in the wind, she was looking for beauty, not ugliness, which is another aesthetic, people don’t know what they want, blunter psychology, which everybody implicitly understands, i go the whole hog in a séance, muted, weary high-handedness, the psychopathy of small differences, people don’t know what they want, attracted to her underarm stubble, dead tree with crows, who has no knowledge of the email, people cannot be or have themselves, surprisingly calm, i withdraw into my intestines, made up of small gestures, which seem inconsequential

a husky man in jeffrey dahmer glasses touching a $45,000 coat tentatively, pigeon blood cabochon, a crisis of desire, the molten iron but not the finished tool, from pristine to piss stream, noise of activity, people moving around, neckbeared indolents, traipsing down dalston high street in designer hiking gear, dreams wet & vivid as fresh snow, the biology of mammals & their genitals has its roots in crime & misery, rich brown sable glazed with silver, & which still ceaselessly expressed that desire, it has to accumulate into something, the scam seems so plain at this distance, as though from a moving car, i withdraw into my intestines

florid accounts in his notes app, when i don’t know the language i’m going straight off vibes, black circle, black carpet, the problem is i’m fucked up too many nights a week, if we could go back there, we couldn’t communicate with the people, already cold, lifted in chains from the sludge & into the air, exudate of the wound of the old world, the psychopathy of small differences, late clinging leaves fluttered in the wind, like change had come to a halt, i need chemicals in cubes, powders, liquids, another wet morning in a foul summer, white flecks in the substrate, as though the fur were still on the animal

Kieran Devaney is from Birmingham, UK. His debut novel, Deaf at Spiral Park was published by Salt in 2013. His most recent publications are ‘Sitcom’, a story first published in online journal Fanzine and later selected for inclusion in Best British Short Stories 2019 (Salt), and a chapter on Alan Burns in British Avant-Garde Fiction of the 1960s (Edinburgh University Press). He is a freelance fiction editor.