In the event of death all body parts up for donation

Heart. Must be a good ol goer, one careless owner.

Liver. Deserves a medal.

What are kidneys for again?

Those bits in eyeballs that are all the rage. Take the bags underneath too.

Enough body hair to save several terminally understuffed sofas; pubic, to regenerate the merkin market.

Feet, hands: spare parts for paddleboats; ashtrays; umbrella stands?

I - aye, I'd eyed - Self-portrait as Velasquez's 'Mars'

I wake up with no memory of who I am. A card in my pocket with a name on it. I google the name.

There are three candidates for me.

1. An apparently unambitious artist with no evidence of a career in the past or future.
2. A dull-sounding librarian (is there any other kind?) working at a library at an institute at a university. Why so many 'ats'?
3. A cage-fighter.

I think I must be the cage-fighter. I feel like I have had many injuries, that this body is a patchwork carcass of wornleather over scar-tissue and gristle. I can imagine the violent rage nurtured in a boy with a softy first name. Maybe I escaped from my cage in a post-fight stupor looking for somewhere to lay me down, to find some place less cagey.

Travel observations from somethen (not rightnow)

It's the tourist equinox, the out-of-season/season cusp.

Saturday influx, tentative but obvious.

And now they come. It is Saturday 11am and the Electra Palace Hotel has its new season flock. 20 mins ago just me and the fisherman. Now, in twos, fours, and now sevens and eights, treading on sand 'n' pebbly beach like they're on the moon. First, tentative steps, checking the gravity, the footing – they may float off or sink in. A few sunbeds finally off their sides, their six-months anti-spooning becomes hybrid-missionary, accepting swim and seared sleepers and hatted sunglassed readers. Rare kid, spitter in the sea; checking what? Its acceptance or rejection of same or different (a foreign agent or a common element) – maybe the whole sea is spit. And piss. And sweat.

How long 'til a few bars open? I give them 20 minutes, 30, tops.

Old local woman prowls, senses photo opp. Practiced disregard – give em what they want. Mars icecream trucks urgent. Trucks with fresh new plastic outdoor furniture – urgent – on a mic!