Now I learn to write good

There is a picture cast in sand on the carpet under my desk.  It shows my feet, outlined.  Their tombs from where they were removed sit dirty and to the side. Last warn to a beach were we swam in the swell of the northern sea.  Where clouds, heavy with stone grey bottoms, queued to the horizon mirrored by the rolls in the belly of an un-tamable friend. Your shoulder length hair obscures your face, limp with salt of sea-air and manipulated by northerly winds that raise goose bumps and nipples on our bodies.  We swim out and loose each other in the turn of the waters top.  Moments alone, feet away. The sea holds us close but its dominance forces severance.  We come together; limbs tangle.  At first I thought that we would pull each other down. Now alone, the grit between my toes substitutes the embrace of our cold bodies.  Knowing the sand will one-day run thin, I will not clean my shoes.

We all ate slab sponge coloured pink with mulberries collected from the burial grounds.  30p a piece. 20 for smaller miss shapes. Our falling milk teeth cracked thick icing on the days when they baked mostly bread. Care not. Care not. The sponge was dry and rough. still sweet; always sweet. No matter how long rested. When fresh, I my teeth sank into the warm foam. With wet icing glueing to the roof of my mouth and the back of my teeth. Sponge falling about my tongue, like bonemeal and soil about rake. My whole family, buried under mulberry. The baker's too. Generation  stacked down. Melting.  Roots tangle, bone flesh and blood. Sweet meats and entrails. Brains no longer ignoring. lessons provided. I won’t wast your time. Now, always, permanently ignorant. Sometimes, when we went late after school on Thursdays, the baker would give us extra bits for free. Thursdays in the summer. The cake, finished late the night before, would be betwixt: the icing fleshy...