black labour producing white cotton
blacks labouring in the cotton fields, in the white cotton
as shadow into which white must itself look for the shape it wears
so that through a laborious shaft of dependency
black makes white
slave making master
masters able only to find negation and annihalation at the heart of their own ideology
barstards

I’m a week late saying so but there was a Coda to the whole bin death incident. Death of Dennis.
It was the wife. We went and we found one day that her garbage bin was full over flowing with flowers. Stuffed full of fresh flowers fresh bunches of flowers packed in upended almost ostentatiously with the bin lid not even closing.
We could only stand and stare almost abashed by how things were turning out like some frightening Noir short story.
The bin full of flowers she had thrown out all the flowers she had received and she hadn’t even tried to hide it it was like she was showing off that she had thrown out all the flowers.
And given his obsession with the bins, which I can’t even describe, it was just this farcical postscript to see the flowers stuffing his bin his condolence flowers.
And yet it got worse.
Because she must have received more flowers, you see. Because in the next couple of days, we found flowers in our bins too.
She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was rudely throwing away all the flowers of sympathy people had thought to send her.
She was showing it off.
It’s so frightening.
And late at night every light in that house you may see turned on.
And then someone came, not her, there are others who go in and out there, had fixed the bins, made them make sense again because for a while there it didn’t make sense, except according to some chilling antilogic of the gothic short story, or something.

For a long time now or was it for years now I have desired you I’ve desired you I’ve had this desire
She sits staring at the screen trying to remember the words and she can’t remember them. The words, the sentences, like bars like. The words cage her and yet they’re shadowed insubstantial she can’t even remember them quite
To think I could have had you even then the whole time to think
No she can’t remember.
Her hand resting beneath the small hard half-globe of her own breast her clothes ill-fitting she sits on the couch staring. The words repeat in her head while she washes her hands without soap washing.
To think that noone has ever kissed do you mean that noone has ever kissed your kissed your Can’t complete the sentence. Not that one. No.
She sits. No No
If I only said.
If only.
I’m fine, I said. I said, Oh yes I’m fine. I’m fine.