The Thin Line

 

On the 3rd of November 1986 5 brave Dadaist’s painted a white line in protest along the colourful side of the Berlin Wall, this is my Promeathean tribute to them, here’s to falling walls and raising spirits.

THE THIN LINE

Over Weimer dusk is seduced by darkness,

it’s Wednesday, it’s June 26th, it’s 1984.

A striding crew-cut, wary of his own persona,

stops, and leans against cadaverous bricks

He rubs his head, feeling the comfort of the follicles resistance.

Anxiety, who had been shuffling hurriedly in front, returns to spark his last cigarette.

100 yards ahead, he spies a young man, Thomas O.

Taking the sun from the sunset,

And stirring it into his paint pot.

Goethe’s Promethean agitator.

Inhales the colour.

Tight black jeans, loose red jumper. flecked with yellow all over.

Holding his dripping brush aloft like a torch.

Taunting the paranoids.

He anoints an ashen façade

“Turn the state into cucumber salad” it reads

As the final ‘T’ is finished with a vertical pull.

A yellow-gold globule splashes to the ground-up.

The crew-cut smiles.

He sees the light.

Men are not gods.

Thomas is arrested.

For gifting fire.

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For Gilberto

 

Written in response to the piece above, Sueño del unicornio, 1996, by Gilberto Aceves Navarro for an exhibition of his work at Galeria Hilario Galguera, Mexico City.

 

The tipsy light.

Upon this red,

Upon this white.

Collapses

Like the relief of lovers,

Who’ve found,

Each other.

After the fire,

Of smothered profligacy.

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Duality

It isn’t the door, it is the knock.

It is the time, not the clock.

Don’t let the winds choose where your ship will dock.

As one begun as though, and so,

The two and fro

And three and free,

And for something and against something,

Fists are five wrapped and trapped.

Let’s hear it for the never clapped.

Enjoy the silence when you’ve been slapped.

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The Last Bath

The bottom of her forearms rest along the sides of her bath.

The bottom of her tongue rests in her mouth.

Her bottom she rests in the bottom of her raft.

She’s overdressed.

This is no place for a scarf.

She turns on the hot tap.

Smoke says its long goodbye to the wick.

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A Fraction of the Whole

Mid-wank Nina realises she has never tried to remember the name of her childhood rabbit.

Names aren’t important to Nina, except hers.

Nina thinks Nina, sounds like a siren.

She pushes her confidence through crowds on a stretcher attached to a sauvignon drip.

Elbow’s trained,

Snowplowing through un-casual drinks.

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March Madness

Two Tuscan hares, lie back and wheeze on the Suffolk air.

“One day we’ll learn to fight properly”, says Alex after their annual sparring.

“I might move back to Old Country” says Tony.

Alex ponders whether,

if he saw himself hopping through this field, he’d see an immigrant;

He’s never been to Europe. Would they even want him there?

His ears stand up, like clandestine lovers who’ve been rumbled.

Twitching.

There is barking in the distance.

 

The Fraglie Potrait

 

Ink crawls out of its afternoon puddle and onto her to do list

The street spits its phlegm at the glass facade

Of the little gallery at 83

A special delivery scheduled for lunchtime

Well, “between 12 and 4”

It’s the fragile portrait

A framed opinion on reflection

It’s what she’s been waiting for.

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Second Shot

The little coffee shop bell, tingles down my spine.

Door hinges disagree with one another,

Squawking like angry crows.

The bored barista thinks about his audition,

When will they be handing me a macchiato, he wonders.

A moustached accent with an idiot attached says nothing. Loudly.

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Opening Night

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(This poem was written for The Listeners Project where the brief is to respond to a space that is about be demolished or changed. The Adel Rootstein Mannequin Factory at dusk was the creepy setting for my piece. It had been opened 57 years previous.

Here is the link to video: https://vimeo.com/197206852)

The rusty hands of time stop,
As he enters the room.
Quin the man – the malaprop
In his party’s throbbing womb.
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Unfinished Business

Unfinished Business

The ice winks in the glass
Warm thoughts freckle my shoulders
My mind melts into my veins
Eyes shutter close
As nostalgia has a lock-in
Painted smiles chuckle around the bar
Filled with familiar faces of people I have never met
Bottles, who spirit is judged on emptiness
Line up, in front of an oily mirror
One is charged and taken for further investigation
In it’s place, a reflection of you
Glimmering under a paper moon Continue reading