wiggle

by Marcus Silcock

When it is up for air, it expands like a hot air balloon floating through the night sky. In the city of endless lights, the foreign wiggles translated to a rest for your penis. It was 2am and they walked past the parking with license plates covered for privacy. We are only resting, they said. Nothing more. Rain patted the pavements. The love hotel was full of cushions. Floating hearts and creaking floorboards. In the morning, the shop opened its shutters. The internet went down. One signal smothering another. Every night I flap my arms to fly. Then I cross my arms across my chest like a middle aged vampire, says Kato. It is hard to know how to sleep. The hard bed. Little animals at our feet that stretch out in the night. There is some wiggle room and she is still trying to find it.

Photo of Marcus Silcock

BIO: Irish writer Marcus Silcock (formerly Marcus Slease) teaches English literature and creative writing at a high school in Barcelona. His writing has been translated into Slovak, Turkish, Polish and Danish and has appeared widely in magazines and anthologies in North America and Europe. He co-edits surreal-absurd for Mercurius magazine. His latest book of prose poems and microfictions, Dream Dust, is available from Broken Sleep Books. Find out more at Never Mind the Beasts (www.nevermindthebeasts.com).