dropped by the noticeboard a couple of hours ago, the one just inside the entrance of that gallery, the one that used to be a tattoo parlour, have been gravitating there off and on for the past two or three years, you know that, saw that you hadn’t pinned anything up in quite sometime, wondered if you had maybe gotten sick or simply fed up with the process, barista across the street said he hadn’t seen you in ages, thought you had moved out your apartment on the sixth floor, said you bought a warehouse on an industrial estate, as I looked at your last post and at some of your other images scattered around the board some text came to mind, pulled out a pen, although it kind of jarred, stuttered, as if the words were clogging in the desperation of my shambolic handwriting, I know I should stick with one brand, buy a couple of packs of them online, carry a couple on me, whilst I remembered I scribbled the words down and the slipped the scrap of paper into the condom pocket of my jeans, the pair that I bought in the Muji sale at Kitasenju, whoever calls it a condom pocket?, is that really what’s called?, and you were right, I should have bought a size smaller, so having mentioned the barista I got a notion for a cortado, ordered at the counter and made a comment on the barista’s beard, if I could temper mine I would grow it but I’m as useless at styling a beard as I am in a garden, or a kitchen, he laughed and said he’d bring the cortado over in a couple of minutes, so I went and sat down in one of those comfy armchairs, the sort that you can just sink into with a book, pulled out the slip of paper and laid it out on the low table in front of me, moments later the barista set down a saucer with a duralex glass on it, carefully positioning it up alongside the paper as if manipulating the elements in a still life, the barista’s identity bracelet dangling on his wrist inscribed with the words, total chaos, silver linked bracelet, black shirt, eau de cologne, familiar with him but not knowing him, not knowing about him and he knew nothing about me but he knew things about you, he told me before about your favourite shoe designer and he exclaimed, do you know how how much a pair of those shoes cost, and I told that my dad always insisted on good shoes, apparently you judge a person from the feet up, she told the barista she often went barefoot, especially when she was painting, and the barista said, now that I think of it she has some sort of studio or workshop in the warehouse, as I say I haven’t seen her so I don’t know if she is still making dance films or taking photographs of balloons, only occasionally one of her friends turn up but they say little, he made his way back to the counter to serve a waiting couple, I looked down at the glass, at the words on the slip of paper, I realised there had been other words in my head, words that were meant to follow on, or images that needed to be transformed into words, a minor superficial distraction, superficial minor distraction, superficial, minor, the minor distraction, and I stood at the window looking down onto the street, looking at the tree lined central reservation that divided the road, if I had lived on the fourth floor I wouldn’t be able to see over the rooftops, I wouldn’t see to the edges of the city, to where Google informed there was an industrial estate, beyond that, woods, forest, going into hills, to mountains, and I turned to admire the print on the wall, a black and white photograph, one of yours, taken from the noticeboard, I filled the empty space with some banknotes, I know not enough, I know what your work sells for, but it’s the thought that counts
pork pie, old hat, that jazz, morning light
Stobcross Crane
why are you always leaving me?
No more the skies – drab days envelope – here enclosed, anguish of decay – a certain smile brings relief – love illuminating – each day a new lie – she is a skin job dreaming of sheep – I cook her chestnut mushrooms in miso and hope to appease the situation – she shouts from the bedroom, I feel sad – cracked and faded life lived in exile – in a dark room, black tomb, squeezing light from winter’s sun that barely warms your skin
– from blurred shapes through moments of conjecture we see who we are – a sullen serpent has inflicted it’s venomous wound – I take the bowl to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed – dark matter – do you remember you sent me dick pics to make me laugh, they almost looked like art to me – I pour the scalding soup onto my bare feet and onto the carpet – why are you always leaving me?
to fuck or to die
To her he seemed withdrawn. Coffee slowly brewing on the stove. Child crawling and weaving between their legs. He wanted to ask if the father was still around. The child chortled. Penelope fetched some bread warming in the oven. Will you ever be able to use your arm again Alexander. She looked down into the street. Gurgling water being pushed through ground coffee into espresso pot. Alexander you have been here for three days and never washed. She poured the coffee into tow small cups sitting on a smell wooden tray. She turned to him. Would you like honey or preserve with your bread? I’m afraid I have run out of butter. He looked across at her, I really don’t mind. Whatever you are having. She smiled, honey of course, don”t you remember how much I like it. He gazed at her. Of course I remember. I remember a picnic. We sat on the beach. Boiled eggs and honey sandwiches. Then we strolled.
did we enter the woods to fuck or to die, perhaps both
…la petite mort…and do you remember finding the little bird skeleton
and you whispered through hands
that your cat only killed when hungry
oh we still have appetites to sate
Would you like a bath after breakfast? There’s a razor and soap in the medicine cabinet. His. The child’s father’s. Alexander looked at the child. She had a father. Penelope felt uncomfortable. She remembered the picnic. The stroll along the beach that lead to a walk in the woods. The pause that erupted into their love making. Alexander unable to use his right arm lifted the coffee cup to his mouth with the left. He was whole when they fucked that day. Not immobilised by an accident on a fishing boat. Penelope remembered how she would sit by the bath on an old blue chair that he had constructed out of palettes and found driftwood. Jazz playing on the radio. How he liked to take his coffee cup with him when bathing. His nakedness different to when they were in bed or fucking outside. Could you help me wash? I haven’t gotten used to…no, no, sorry I have embarrassed you. What we were, our intimacy, circumstances change. I realise it would make you feel uncomfortable. Penelope smiled, You came to me for help in whatever form that might take.
Kado
blank screen memories – all passivities – breathe mist upon glass vaporising words in silent speech – sleeping flowers in the night garden – naples yellow girl in a cadmium yellow pool – painted hand leaving an impression on breast and thigh – i touch the cold pane but you pull back my hand sharply, don’t wipe our story away – she slaps his belly and asks, what is the origin of fat? – disconnected – reconnected – not that i can see – oh poor Oedipus
Written word, as does the voice, words spoken, arise from inside of this person, that, perhaps you once touched. Humility brings us to our knees. Look closely, there is no self conscious image, no delusion, no interesting garb or particular posture, overgrown eyebrows, no fine tuning. No pictures on the wall, no totems, no tokens, no false gods or hip hip. Emission of human emotion, true feeling. A desire to engage without pretension. No sudden accumulation of knowledge without a modicum of understanding. No rush of fake belief. As if. And if I hold you it is because I love you. Will you tell me, I know you. I know you do.
write me a poem
Néant. With you.Without you. Néant.Néant. But you.Where are the words, she asked, there is only silence.Several moments ago the wasp had been going up and down the glass surface of the window whilst I was looking beyond it to a figure dressed in a yellow anorak, hi vis jacket, hooded sweat or some other kind of garment in a vividly luminously coloured fabric and now the wasp was struggling on the surface of a slice of pumpernickel that had been unsparingly smeared with homemade bramble jam from fruit which had been gathered in the autumn of last year when we had communicated with each other but failed to engage face to face.I can’t see the words, a tone of dismay in her voice, there is only a blank page.I wrote the words down. Emailed them to you. I haven’t spoken to anyone for three or maybe four days.I get up in the morning. Put coffee on and light the wood burner. Then I read. Other people’s words. Sometimes I think about them. If it’s poetry, I’ll think about them.I used to live with the characters of a novel when it was fiction. But now I don’t do that. I live with the ghosts of people from the Internet. Struck by how egoistical they can be and how blunt and rude they can be. It shouldn’t matter, should it. They are just deluded fantasists. Self proclaiming to be someone as far removed from their reality as you could possibly find.So this. Néant. Silence. Without words.Words that are read. Not spoken. Not a story told verbally.Each night I would go to bed knowing that she was beneath my bed. I would open a book and read. Only a couple of pages perhaps. Then get up, remove my boxer shorts, go pee, wash hands and face, wash genitals, brush teeth and return to bed. Pick up a different book. Another couple of pages. Stop. Wonder if she was naked beneath the bed. Had she fallen asleep? Resume reading but after a couple of minutes think that I should be writing not reading. I’d put the book the book down on the floor. The carpeted floor that so badly needed vacuuming. Fuck how dusty must it be beneath the bed where I hadn’t vacuumed for months. I wanted to look. You don’t believe me,do you, about the woman. I wanted to look but I didn’t. And just as I’m about to turn off the light she says, read me a poem. And I do. Something by Franz Wright. Now read one of yours to me. I find seven scribbled lines on a notepad. I read the lines aloud. I like that, she replies. It’s about me and you, isn’t it. It wasn’t. I turned off the light. But the cat in your poem isn’t ours, she whispers.Write me a poem. Not from your dreams. But from mine.
blank screen memories 