Petra Whiteley



Acres of Solitude



No one in the story. Does there have to be someone, anyone? Or can it be, just A bar with a bass crackling from shaded corner above the red, worn musty carpet. Must someone listen to it? Can it just linger and be? A song that's never left.

A smell that rings in the sleep. A peculiar light, a renegade witness.


Does it have to be like tea, squeezed animals swirling and sugar strained from red seas, somewhere within? Beating ant-hems of nations merrily, merrily. Nations, like old, loose pidgeons, darkeningly drunk, excreating busy-ness.


And those who are given to the other side of the story so reluctantly, so unwillingly, are moving so very, so very slowly. They are nobodies like you-me-us. It takes infinite move--ment of snooker balls to make the clock go and that, that sad, sad song to find its last note. A history of miles spent breathing flying words and bodies, left behind like they were already dead when they were just belling, contemplating the planes that weren't moving. Destinations undeparted. Firestealers in amnesia, in ennui film sweat, sea acres of solitude.


A cut between a place and a mist that clings to walls. In the dark it looks prettier. The lonely. In the clothes on the floor, there is some hope growing within them. It is a rising steam, a mirage. Defeat of the day came with birthing blood and residues of struggles, the expulsion tax. A tide, a glow. Now this story is not so great, so it opens a can of dreams.


Washed out in the rain, that cold, tired rain spinning in the drain.





Petra Whiteley © 2010