I found a stack of sketches, all near identical, each figure having taken mere moments to translate. I like the messiness of the whole thing. All of it. Everything. Life. Don't tidy me; don't edit me into conformity and I can be deliciously succinct.
Give me an old body any day
with breasts comfy as cats, skin
that wants to touch itself.
Young bodies are regular, angular or thin,
each appendage trying to leap,
perpendicular, as far away from its host; each
bump a fleshy beast as obstructive,
as appealing, as short-shelved as a peach.
Not long to go now until Nuala Ní Chonchúir touches down, on the first of September, to talk about her ravishing book of short fiction, Nude. And now I want to congratulate her on her genius for choosing a title that would make headlines this week for being in a tug of war between two celebrities - what great publicity! - And she isn't even married to Henry DeTamble!
I'm still averaging a short story a day, too. Got that collection collected! Now, what to do with it?