Beng Kidney is just like you. He works for the weekend and when the weekend arrives he can’t remember the weekdays.

There’s a little Kidney in us all.

I live in the valley

There are trees here. They didn’t want it, roots painted in tarmac, lapping at charity drips that wiggle through cracks in the rock, but here they are. We make the best of it.

In the valley

Been here over a year, winter to winter; away from the deserts. I believe dirt can provide a temporary mind, can take the old one away while you’re distracted. In a short space of time it did these things. I always knew I’d grow up fast.

The rain falls

The clock drips loudly and strikes the plexus. She stirs lightly and whimpers. She feels warm and soft, the rain falls again and calls me. I’m sticky from historic sex. The pitter patter sounds of the valley as we all wash our skins smooth. The mirror reminds me that I’m just one more person and I’m surprised again. There’s hair in the sink. I pull it free; it’s wound around globules of human fat. They glisten in the stirred air.


Pour it into bowls and cups and spread it around, and the valley boils teabags and ground beans until they are steeped with agitation. The doors burst open and bags are dragged to the curb. Eyes level into the spaces, threading through each other, necks twisting, avoiding, avoiding.


You’re right about that, neighbour.


Staccato clicks of a toe-heel percussion, pantyhose and pinstripes. Eyes brush eyes, lightly, without sticking. We touch, we apologise. I can smell a floral image of skin, scrubbed and scented, shimmering. The apology is accepted.

Dispersing through cracks.

Our path of least resistance was drilled, cut, blasted, measured, levelled, buried, hammered, painted and reinforced. It offers no resistance anymore. Swirl in tiny eddies against the hot flow of steel, aggressive and insulated, strapped against the insides. Hot against the skin: the warm breath of the dead. Their ghosts appear, leaving a light scent, and slip into the air amongst the hum. Bubbles rise to the surface of the current; watch them burst and hope that they remember us, wherever they go.

It rains

Our images coalesce in fabric performance. Enter stage right and identify the fire exits. We want nothing more than for you to be alive and in perfect physical health. Line, line, hold shift, hold the door, smile, smile. Smile, smile, smile.

For a year

From winter to winter.

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