Lonely as a ghost scouring time, I visit our western hunting grounds where ramshackle railway mansions pose as rooming houses peopled by green grocers’ apostrophes and rubber plants.
Your 19th century visage buckles and swims under mind-glass. Two asterisks, your eyes, footnote night and day, blasting mine clean of thought. Who’s that strange pearly creature? you ask, damp hair parted like a Rabbinical scholar studying the textual sea floor. The light is Indian summer. Where you stop and I begin it’s no longer possible to navigate. It hurts to look at knees, forearms, the unexceptional, the utilitarian, you. The cuckoo rings in the city’s fever dream.
I shot it all, did I say? Archiving, a friend calls it. Another, the turning book. Busy with your own recordings, you mixed me eleven mix tapes. I still play them but not as much.
