Saturday, 21 April 2012

Small pieces (2002)


There's said and unsaid.
In a room somewhere
pretends to sleep.
The windows
were wet with clouds.
Listen. Measured breaths.


Objects hurt us.
Eyes are made
at the edge of
an arrangement, or
distance crumbles.
Some ends are
the next best things.


You're here for now;
your little moments,
writ in big letters.
The tripped up story
gives way to
a slick history,
sequenced and shining.


Your reason? maggots;
a rust accountant.
to learn how the world
turns and does not turn.
All things are clothed, then
one day all undressed.
You'll get shroud-hungry.


Considered money;
a mouth opens,
dispensing coins.
The mint finish
of that speech wills
a world frozen
with idiot style.


All doors are
opened to
this stuck mirror grin.
Your schtick is arch, ruled.
Living thinking sours
while your children
are educated.


He wanted
to love her
in a certain way.
Certainly he burns.
I think that
it's better
to be cold.


Every day
is laboured wishes
spun or struck as traps.
As if there was
a reason,
I saw you smile
as the whole street shrank.


Kill this classic scheme
with fucked words.
We dribble. They stare.
A nature chatters
while auditors
crack fingers, as if


Babylon allows
for no nearness, love.
It'd rot us here,
where the words come out.
What jumps from our throats
are now Levite swords.
Chant down the whole grid.

These poems are taken from a pamphlet I wrote some time ago. There's minimal redrafting; it was hard to hold back as there were phrases that seemed a little gauche to me.

No comments:

Post a Comment