on a kind of record, II


she said

I’m going to talk to you quite openly

and she

apologised for her vulgarity


is there a way onward


by Gamboa

the western cordillero


a patch of vomit

made up of the lights

of Bogotá


cupped in the hands

of a thousand digits


figures of bone

walk the western



still recognisable

moving without acknowledgement

you are watching


relations of yours

I ask


you trap me in fucking

you trap me

we shut up

we know


the identity

we need to show

indifference to