Friday, 9 November 2007


Two objects on the floor,
One sock caught on a ledge that only a photograph could do justice,
And a hat, to its right, under a chair, both curled up, used,
And discarded in the process of living.

A shoe,
This morning parked just on the threshold between the bedroom and the thoroughfare for all other rooms, in this tiny flat, that we share in chaos and silence.

Within that red and gold, paint splattered, tattered remnant, exists some mute resonance of its owner, her truth embodied, and secret forever.

Monday, 5 November 2007


These eyes are round,
They’ve grown that way,
Like the planets, the stars, the seasons,
And this inferno,
Created and destroyed this way.

I am…
And you are…
Round this way
‘We run around’,
And, ‘We come around’,
And it’s…
‘About this’,
‘About that’,
“Will you come around?”
“Will you come around, to this?”
“…To me?”
But it’s agreed though, right?
That 'We…'
…That 'WE' never change.
But everything revolves,
So, how is it that we have become like this,
This way?
And that...
We are no longer around together?

This fools paradise only sees so little.
We are made this way,
To see close,
To misconstrue,
The grand movement of greater bodies,
In order to have survived,
Thus far,
We have had to become a little selfish through instinct
Along this great flat plain,
That is nevertheless,
Inconceivably round,
And inconceivably…


Sunday, 4 November 2007

Fallen masonry

I can’t be sure if any of this is right.
I’ve asked everyone for confirmation,
And still, I fear, my heart can’t tell this wrong from right.
And now I’m here, and the fighting is gone
I’m so cold without you here beside me in this tiny flat.
But I can’t help what you feel,
Or how your anger towards me has grown -
I think you’d like to see me dead.
I’m feeling as if all my weaknesses have been revealed,
Like an untidy stomach through a gaping shirt,
Or some strange manners, to which I am blind.
And you threatened yourself with injury, yesterday,
What was that all about? A tool to blackmail me out?
And then you threatened to have me beaten up.
Now, I need my sleep after three days drinking, trying to manage pain,
I wish I had your version of these clumsy words,
So that I could put them together and fill the holes
In this broken mess, not far from the Seine.


Circumstance peels back the skin.
And all that was there, all this time
expands like a fist unfolding.
An ugly flower, whose pollen chokes
those that once believed
that it's nectar was sweet.

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