the liquid pavilions

over the hill
the mechanical shovels gather in vast reservoirs of wine
planting flags in the cranium of a child
the child has fingers of plasticine and wire
and a crest of feathers ruffled by the wind
sewing needles and streamers of coloured silk
dangle from its hands
the child has hidden its gearbox under the floor
and whenever it counts to five an egg appears
and in the egg is a paperweight and a watch
and the watch gives birth to various coloured winds
that strip the flesh from the living and waken the dead
and the dead outnumber the living and steal their shoes
and set up their tents in the long-deserted streets
the dead have faces of heroin and ice
and lie in wait for the unsuspecting rain
and when it falls they turn their eyes to the wall
and so the story begins

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