Do not place anything on top of your lover

By | 22 July 2009

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


this ordinary life: cobra uncoiling is Kylie;
its jacket has been lit, man rolled back to ma

from behind restores our tongues.
We apologise
for any inconvenience.

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