Re: Vauxhall Gardens
"Poland". like soil on the tongue. Index finger, concealed in right pocket, invisibly demonstrates a nightscape memory of the dream-lancing he’d clove in that small white, muted creature that bloated, larval, on the debris and souped and transmuted thereupon the hallowed ground. He rehearses the gash with but his bleary backseat recollection, the butchers’ testimony, and absentmindedly in his pocket he makes that miniature gesture of cutting which he secrets to himself. His other, visible hand grips the lapel of his haunted museum clothes, till he merely is just tapping against the gaunt flesh of his lean thigh lightly, and then altogether taking out his hand as a balled fist, bone-knuckle, at his side. What cannot be obscured is the angry, wounded look at the mention of dreaming.
He focuses on how she speaks, unlike any woman he’s heard articulate these views, her words a smoldering sonnet for her stained life. Perhaps, she is not so different than he. Other than in look, she the dainty painted rose on the cream cup, he the sets of bloody handprints on a crumbling wall.
“I recall a dream vividly, yet I’m curious,“ says he. Stomach full of meathooks. Eyes like torches. “Tell me of this odd manner in which this person spoke in yours? as mine as well, had a strange manner of... speaking.”