Trevor Price is a writer in Sydney, Australia. He is a graduate of the Master
of Arts in English program at the University of Calgary, Canada, where he
published his poetry thesis.

Breakfast Near Wooden Stairs, 1943

There is a school in everyone: educated bites covered in mud flies and bananas. Imaginary friends; porridge and war.

A stairway interrupts our conversation.

Heave lumps, silver utensil, live without a body, heave lumps, a trail pattern: fur over banister ascending in parallel, heave lumps, spoon motion, mechanical sadness, pattern shape, broken floor.

A Crab and Exo

Consider ocean rocks covered in fleck and scales. Consider beach sleep. Consider bleeding at night with a knife. Eel and moon.

There is a plant in the rainforest that nobody notices. This is skin.

It is better to eat what you kill than to order in. Floors. Wallpaper. That cloth that hugs the ironing board.

This Cranial Sea

Rot head. Waterlog. Swell dizzy streets. Blur swirl your fish tank skull. Ears leak saltwater clay below cake-weed dread locks. Crawl. Sputter green sludge. Vines in the back of your throat.

You look sad. It must be hard to live with so much ocean in your head. I wish I could drain it for you but your brain might leak out. I wish I could tell you that it's okay but I know it isn't. I don't think you're going to live.

When I Listen to Myself I Hear Pins Drop.

You are busy winding summer yo-yo, splattering memories; you are busy with two beehives: the one in your hair, the one in your mouth—you know more than you let on. Your hair is an activity, your mouth is a room, your glasses lay smashed in the grass covered in fire ants.

When I listen to you I get stung.

Break into hives. Drop pins. Jump down a well. Expect a letter this time tomorrow covered in grass stains and bug splatter. Bury it under the swings.

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