1873 c/o Kieran Ryan

1873 you’ve been having these pale mini-dreams. they project all over your room’s little walls: men slicing land, pears being crushed, people in sheds, and a country being cut up for ships to pass through, a digging, a panic. 1873 you shiver, your hands sweat and mumble like they know how pistols feel. and coaly silver coins. wet faces, no sparklers underground, a panic. 1873 you hold your body so close to your little chest. you have no idea what lights going green feel like do you, no aeroplanes, no eyeballwarping acceleration, no lemony touchscreens. 1873 you were murmuring round and round about five days of the ground on fire. little breezes. model men shouting with tea, the little sun touching a continent all sliced up, all popped in mouths. 1873 and you have not seen a man throw up on christmas lights. your little head shakes. and barbed wire. bodies on sandbanks, fat boats on fire, men eating soil like smoothie.