125

Out in the street the air
Flowed through a mass
Of capillary junctions and
The main throbbing routes
Like a warm liquid. He
Felt its successive waves,
Making his way through
The crush, using lights of
Convenience stores and the
Vacillating neons above the
Club entrances as a lost
Mariner might constellations.
The bodies of drunks came
Leaning over his five foot
Frame as they passed and
As one fell into him Harlow
Gave him a close hard left
To the gut and saw him
Stagger down. There was a
Beating in his temple and a
Feeling of gravity and the
Lights were falling away
But it faded as he walked
On. He could feel the gun in
His sock, a reservoir of
Concentrated, silent energy.
It had rained and the
Stoplights had bled into the
Road. The stars ground on
As if attached by spokes to
A great dark wheel. And he
Thought Somewhere behind
There is an engine room.

124

It was a heavy night,
Humid, dull yellow and
Stagnant, the air full
Of the sound of traffic
And air conditioning and
Bars turning out. Harlow
Crouched in the alleyway
Taking the few rounds
Out of the snub and he
Put them away. He rolled
His pants at the ankle
And put the snub in his
Long yellow tennis sock.
He cracked his knuckles,
Both hands, and stood up.
The mouth of the alley
Was roaring and bright
Like the window of a car
On the subway passing
A station. He paused with
A hand on the dumpster
To look up, past massed
Fire escapes and grilles to
A cramped outlet on the
Heavens. He thought of
The cashier, slumped to
The floor behind the till.
Grey, the gash the pistol
Butt made growing livid.
He spat. Above him the
Stars were close, yellow.

123

He dreamed. Light flickered on
In a room of his past life:
He stood beneath the bulb as
It shone into the dark of
His old apartment. The light
Touched adjoining rooms, and
His half-formed shadow fell
Into them and objects he
Had lost were rendered by it
Softly and he felt the space
Yawn away from him. Where
He stood his hair was afire
With the light but his face was
Obscured. He wandered away.
In the darkest corner of the
Apartment he found the bed.
There was something in it,
A shape, pale and unbright,
And his heart was hammering.
He could not see. Gasoline
Colours played in his vision.
The pale shape on the bed
Drew to him and he smelt the
Musk of hair and sleep and
She touched his arm—still
Drowsy, childlike—Columbine.

122

Pierrot slept and the light
Came up. The mime remained
By the bed, motionless, dark.
Hunched and elongated, he
Gripped his own vertebrae
At the nape, his bones mapped
In the curtain light and his
Figure as if drawn up into the
Gulf of the white, cold room.
His face was hollow now, and
Unadorned. No show in him.
He ached again for a hit now.
He felt as if his ribcage would
Collapse inward, his arms
Had begun to prickle with heat.
His head was disassociated
From the room, outside of it.
The man before him was white
As a corpse but the fat of his
Abdomen rose from the lower
Edge of his shirt. Fabrice knew
He was fallen in shallow dream.

121

That morning I got up
And found him fallen on
The floor in the passage.
I half woke him and I
Tried to get him up but
Still did not have the
Strength to. But he came
Awake and shuddered to
His feet and leant on me
And I led him to his bed.
Is it morning? It looks
Light. Almost. Just sleep.
Will you shut the door.
It's broken. Just put it to.
His eyes seemed about to
Spill out of his ashen face.
He looked at me as if from
Beyond a threshold. Just
Put it to and let me sleep.

120

At six a.m. I was drifting
In and out of sleep and I
Could hear a harsh sound
Like something gasping for
Life; someone just stabbed.
Like OH, OH. He was in the
Bathroom. I realised it was
The saxophone. A sequence
Of notes fell out like it was
Breaking and I heard Fuck.
Later I opened my eyes
And he came out of there
With it around his neck,
In a loose, dirty white shirt
With black buttons like a
Parisian whiteface with his
Eyes seeming to bleed they
Were so red and in the
Dark room his lit cigarette
Shone in the structure of the
Instrument, the only light.
She is my mother he said,
And laughed in the dark.
I was still fallen asleep—
He was like some visitation.

119

I had been in withdrawal
For days lying on that couch
Sweating and shaking and he
Had locked me in and taken
The whiskey into the bathroom
And shouted in there and
Crashed into the door only
Coming out to go and buy
Cigarettes. I had not eaten
And the night my tremors
Reached the worst he was so
Gone he just screamed himself
Hoarse in there, his girlish
Voice contorting and it was
As if he was speaking to
Someone. He crashed in at
One point, fell down barking
Out some German folk song.
That night at around four a.m.
My fever broke and the white
Pain in my muscles and my
Gut began to subside and I
Drank some milk I had found
Beside me on the floor. He had
Written on the side of the
Carton in blood the word LUNG

118

He vomited and white particles seemed
To flare in his vision and dwindle
And he felt as if he were roaring
Out his innards, as if suddenly he
Would bring up a dark lump of
Himself and the skin would fall empty.
The light had been on but now it
Was dark and he fell back from
The bowl staring upward, and there
He saw as if suspended from the
Ceiling a chain of dull lights in
A soft gold aura, and it was dark
Yet. A string of them and then it
Thickened in coils and then a loop,
Long and slack. Like a noose of stars.
There was a low inchoate moaning
Coming from his throat. The room was
Suddenly full of stark light and a
Screaming mechanical noise and
From the noose there hung a black
Shape of cloth like a cowl. Now it
Was dark again and he was cowering
In his own sick and the cloth floated
Down. He felt its softness cover him
Lightly like sleep. He was sleeping.

117

He could see the electric clock
On the wall, grey, batteries
Running down. It said Timex
On it and it was ten to three.
He was arranged in the bottom
Corner of the bathroom like a
Dropped puppet. His head angled
Up at the clock as if twisted
Or broken, his eyes black, fixed.
Something unnatural. His hair as
White as his skin plastered to
It. His body in a bad posture.
The clock drew something up
Out of him, as he watched it.
It was all reeling in his head
And he could not break out
Of it by will and he slided to
The floor as it was coming in
In the black like rushing colour.
The dark that colour is of.

He passed out. There was a man
At the bar with a feathered
Fedora. And a clock on the wall
The colour of whiskey and he
Came to and began to vomit.

116

Harlow came up to the register
And pulled a snub revolver
From his belt and he put it
To the head of the cashier.
He was dressed in sneakers
And black pants and a yellow
Jersey, no. 24. He was small
And black and his thin head
Seemed to protrude crookedly
From the loose frame of his
Shoulders and his thin ribcage.
The cashier saw the aisle beyond
Him was empty and dark, blue,
Prolific with white bottles and
As if stretching into a vacuum.
Sweat formed in his mustache.
The store was a system outside
Of them, and they were alone.
Empty the register and hand
It to me Harlow said, quietly.
Hand you the register said the
Cashier. The child let there be a
Silence a moment and then he
Cocked the pistol and ground it
Into the forehead of the cashier.
You do not have to do this the
Cashier said and he was shaking.
Neither do you Harlow said.