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The Orange in the Stocking<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n by Jane Burn<\/em><\/p>\n The scent of citrus fills the quiet room from the fireplace rises, dances them in its drift \u2013 jingle their inner treats. Inside each toe, a bulge \u2013 Hull it as you would a brightly packaged gift. here is something not foil-bound, not factory-bred, will nourish compost, not clog up landfill with scrap. \u00a0<\/p>\n The Year of Abandoned Self<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n by Jane Burn<\/em><\/p>\n I am become entirely used to the things my head invents \u2013 saw angels in the trees \u2013 if it\u2019s alright for him, it ought to be okay one time I was tired near Gatwick, late at night. His lips were bone, candy rainbow colours fleeced their happy backs \u2013 they were made it was a mockery. I saw a leather wingback chair melt around my friend, I want to go home. If I stay longer, she\u2019ll drown. I have given up of my eyes like wisps, like smoke, are with me all the time. I\u2019m and run along with my car, grins on their flat metal faces, mouths fucking mad. Imagine keeping such secrets when you are dying to tell. stashing all this broken glass. The woodlice nest like a plot, flit
as socks swing from the radiant mantelpiece \u2013
a conga line of Nora Batty\u2019s legs. Warmth<\/p>\n
when we are asleep on Christmas Eve, they make
their own celebration, kick like a chorus line,<\/p>\n
year after year, tradition places it there. It waits
to be discovered, to offer its sweet to our lips.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s sharp, delicious taste cuts through this day
of bloat and richness. Here are vitamins,<\/p>\n
its bauble plucked from a laden tree. Pips swim
the juice of its breast, tell a story of birth. It\u2019s wrap<\/p>\n
Thumb the centre, pare away each jewel. The segments
were made to be offered. It asks to be shared.<\/p>\n
they might be visions of futures, of secrets, of hell. They might
be prophetic \u2013 I ought to be writing them down. William Blake<\/p>\n
for me. Ezekiel saw wings and faces, wheels in wheels. I saw
this murky figure unfurl beneath a motorway bridge, clung like a bat,<\/p>\n
his spew of garbage laughter spilled like sick \u2013 I think he was waiting
for me to crash. I saw bundles of sheep as I walked on the path,<\/p>\n
from pixels, tiny squares of bubble and bright, like a Super Mario zoo.
They smiled as I put my boot to their heads, trying to tamp them down \u2013<\/p>\n
the burgundy run like blood \u2013 she had no idea, just drank her tea,
told me this and that, all nonsense, of no matter fluff. I thought<\/p>\n
thinking I have edges \u2013 I am soft as sea-mumbled stuff. I am meld.
Listen to my rambling. All the ghosts \u2013 infestations in the corner<\/p>\n
a poor man\u2019s Gormenghast, bargain basement Gundabad \u2013 come
to the home of the cracked. I saw road signs pluck from tarmac roots<\/p>\n
made of zeroes, eyebrows made from fives. We sang it\u2019s a small world
after all, that Disney thing \u2013 quite merry, considering that I\u2019m properly<\/p>\n
The dogs help root through the woodpile for clues \u2013 they believe
in everything I say, that\u2019s how I know I\u2019m right. I can\u2019t remember<\/p>\n
like troubled consciences, out of sight. I am paranoia, I am Armageddon.
I\u2019m beautiful, I\u2019m a dungeon. I\u2019m the second coming of Christ.<\/p>\n