Tuesday, 11 January 2011



There's no romance in his
logic. I've little time for
dialogue with bubbling hormones.
I barely have the patience
for empty rooms, for red cars
hungry in the night.

Science blinds him, he is
not an architect. I am
the anonymous champion in his
atheist arms.

In the absence of any faith
he has found me sucking
on my cigarettes, and thought,
"Yes, this'll do."

Resistant to any compass,
I explode under his geography.
My architecture is based
in his palms: empty rooms,
thieves, vandals, arson,
the struggle of a kiss.

Science blinds him, he is
not a sculptor. I remain
anonymous, championed in his
discoveries, his words.

My brain is immobile, scowls:
eight years old, I was a bucket.
Postcards flicker in the breeze,
he shuts the window.

"Poetry is desire, is a secret
tied up with adverbs," he says,
lighting my seventh cigarette.
"A eulogy, a smell, a glimpse."
Smoking and silent, I wait,
and bend to taste his thigh.

I have blinded him, he is
not a scientist. Held here
between my legs, unmoving,
his body is already a skeleton.

I exit the scene,
unable to talk in tongues,
unable to tie my shoelaces.
He remains, laced up in his logic.


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