BOLDFACENasser Hussain

BOLDFACEN a s s e r H u s s a i n

Burning Eye

Copyright © 2014 Nasser Hussain

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright,Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of

this work

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

form or by any means without the prior written consent ofBurning Eye Books, nor be otherwise circulated in any form ofbinding or cover other than that in which it is published andwithout a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent

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This edition published by Burning Eye Books 2014

www.burningeye.co.uk

@burningeye

Burning Eye Books15 West Hill, Portishead, BS20 6LG

ISBN 978 1 90913 638 0

spice cabinet

I was a number and three quartersand small enough to fit

in the big wooden spice cabinetunder the chopping blockin front of my mother’s slacks

I’d hide among the clinking jarsreadingthe lion the witch and the wardrobeso fantastic, such ice white queensamong the cardamoms the papadamsthe dry chilis crushed for everythingthe cloves reserved forcoughing winter mornings

heard the supper preparingthe where is the egg mutter

a slim brown handanticipating the interruptionwould fish out the nutmegand offer

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breakfast

an old man with sunshine caught between his teethdrooling good morningsasks for more coffee

a signpost on your daily paper routeread it eaten forget it and gonemove on

the most important sneer of the dayham and egg ham and egg and hams and eggs scram ham sand eggs man damned daily sad papers

truth a hot grill a spatulawhite memory handle stickywith flame pure as painburns hurt now no laters

for the waiters out of serviettes and patienceall things being equal to the bacon skaters on lumberjack griddlesadam and eve on a raft writing riddlesgreasy and rhyming, I stop trying

and recall

ham sand egg soar easy burnt oats on the sideand I’m eight minutes into taking fivewhile the egg sand hammers pound another cholesterol nail down

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more coffee pleasemore coif sheep leadsmore cough lotion reliefsa brief cheese dream omeletteand I riseflap sleep from pancake eyes

this is breakfast time

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vengeance stood before me in a line

skull cap and a half

subheading:bad asssweetback

nervous wallets twitching for the forward pass:

itmay flower, may even score

police meanhistory

a sister, carrying concealed opinions—

a new, literalfolder.

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the thing

the thing about alien is the tripethe thing about stomachs is the flexthe thing about arnie is the accentthe thing about language is the restthe thing about sleep is the positionthe thing about grids is the crossthe thing about jesus is the carpentrythe thing about chests is the breaststhe thing about gender is the binarythe thing about code is the renderingthe thing about fat is it’s uglythe thing about art is he’s fatthe thing about meteorites is the chance of it allthe thing about bingo is futilitythe thing about beckett is timingthe thing about comedy is distancethe thing about roads is cargothe thing about weight is gravitythe thing about wrinkles is ironingthe thing about laundry is quartersthe thing about fractions is usefulnessthe thing about school is it’s notthe thing about spiderwebs is spider poothe thing about babies is baby poothe thing about families is financialthe thing about money is love.

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venice

what roads can’t move? where there’s oak, there’s ire – acity collects kindling, calls it history, charges admission for it.would could go up just as wood gross up and you may or mayor not want to beat it, sobe it. just be it. don’ know whatchu meanin’ bein. show me how funky, show me just right. that’sif you can even feel the beat, lighting up streets.you wade, hip deep, an anthem in a language youwere fluent in once. a salad of verbiage we spentfeeding ourselves on in bland canal-side cafés, dry, for the moment, but not for long. the island called, andpigeons called. an old pillar stuck in the middle of in the middle of (a glitch? a binary plop inthe ocean of data? shouldn’t we be more concerned, sir?)piazza tales, white jackets, huge innuendoes, and the ivory, it’ssan it eyes her. a pump or two is enough.marco. polo. marco. polo. marco. polo. marco. polo. marco. polo.

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utah

where the spirit can be created from bare whole thought in a matter of a few books, or a vision.the candle and the cards move us to the westUS use what you find, find you what use, thatis the truth and the underwear proves it. my greatgreat mother knew the good book in a biblical sense. salt peter, saint shaker, good wood for building, and a lake bottom upraised for all of us to see, admiringly.

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