The light flickers,

                              And Derrida's graffiti
asks: when our eyes touch, is it night

or is it day?
Our tongues are now maple syrup

the colour of god's hair or something
I give him marks at least

for genuine attention.

the crescent curve of his back

had to swear loyalty

then up and go with the flow gyrating down

long legs spilling effortlessly
in deepest nebbia.
 

**

 
He slipped through the curtains

on a Friday night,

in techniques of surprise / and exited

To fill up the cosmopolitan
He was too shy to let me know

He grew in a bedroom the colour of prickly pear & it became

His favourite colour;
Except for the suitcase he has completely filled with unfinished words, he leaves

everything behind –

a familiar occurrence: ouch
confused now with appearances

He will draw a door closing, but to him it will just look like an unopened door.
There's no escaping physics or silicates

Beethoven, would be okay.

Buried upright in a tree.
 

**

 
you left i was lost

And I'm easy to store.
It changed our song.

Nails down a chalkboard.
When he reads me, I'm reading him,

until we meet inside the radio

	         Somewhere in the largeness of

the world,

in the thin place between the word and the thing.
But now, each day's another dictionary,

Domesticate words & consume

with an ironic detachment.

Guess that's why they call it – the morning

	(knowing a book so used would not reply);

                                                            hallelujah doesnt come with

raisins
 

**

 
this ordinary life: cobra uncoiling is Kylie;

its jacket has been lit, man rolled back to ma
		     someone

from behind restores our tongues.

	           We apologise

for any inconvenience.