Her voice was like
the Siberian air masses
the eastern slopes of the Urals
She worked the tables
in the kind of bar
which claims to be in Gdansk
but isn't in Gdansk.
It had been fashioned from the
of a giant beetle
with toilet facilities
in the tip of the carapace
I was on my way to Kyiv
to give a lecture in deforestation
but I had taken a 260 kilometre detour
to see Fleshgore who play
Ukrainian death metal
and to collect mummified hind wings
from the carcasses of the gigantic alien insects
which littered the Northern Polish wastelands.
It was that kind of trip
"You should order the Draniki"
she told me, as she took my hands
and placed them on her tiny breasts
in the walk in larder
built within the insect's thorax
We had met
just seconds before
and it was as if we were maquettes
our every movement
positioned by the zoo keepers
The locals call me "paskudnyak" - a scoundrel - she told me.
When I asked her why
she writhed her attenuated fingers
around my wrist
"This is not a normal landscape"
"I am surrounded
by forests without trees
colour trails in an agate sky
bisecting the cumuli nimbus
with the parabola of chariots
"You are gripping me too tightly"
pulling free whilst I still could
"This will be the happiest and the saddest day of your life"
when I told her I had to leave
to catch my train.
She handed me a tiny
which had been wrapped
in her detritus laden gingham apron
"This is a perihelion -
a facet of the mirror
which witnessed the
beginning of time"
We watched the sun
sketch psychotic poems
across a brilliantine canvass
"There will be other trains" I told her
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