Vintage: A little more poetry

Thursday, 17 January 2008

Older Boyfriend’s Room

The carpet has pigmentation problems, though I suppose the reason is dirt. Dirt that doesn't want to relax and come away. Stubborn dirt. Stains.
There's thirty years in the books, and they randomly shuffle on the shelves, with six next to twenty three and ten. And there's books that still grow with prose, with their spines peeling and their fronts marked with coffee by a ring.
Half the carpet is covered in desk; and it will refuse to move, for it's been around, and it wants to settle with its beeswax coat and live peacefully, stuffed with treasures in its brass-labelled drawers. A chair sits poshly in its mouth, lazing backwards and looking glamorous with i's green studded padding. They fit together in some forgotten time.
On the walls there are mismatched patchwork depictions, unframed and swelling over blutac and snarling at the edges, and one there - by the globe on a stick, gone dusty at the Antarctic - unframed too but bumpy with real oil, and the spatula of a paintbrush.
There's no knowing what the drawers have digested, those drawers that are jammed closed and sniggering.
It's a singular mystery.

Carrying Words

He looks like a rat.
A rat with glasses and a twitching nose.
Glasses that gleam like the shines in the eye of a rodent at night.
The night rat that is only sometimes.
Sometimes not.


Wet Universe comes down and flows through me; big and loving are its cupping hands.

Wet Universe lays about the feet of mountains and ebbs its loving arms into an entire embrace.

Wet Universe lays around the feet of mountains and drowns love in its arms.

Wet Universe lays at the base of mountains and feels me up with its licking until I am bigger than the mountains.

Wet Universe lays at the base of mountains and feels me up with its licking until I am bigger than galaxies.

Wet Universe lays at the base of mountains and feels me up with its licking until I have galaxies inside me.

I can finally see the ocean, when it touches me.

I can no longer be afraid of the ocean, when it touches me.

When I touch it, I become water.

To lay in the ocean is to float in space.


There is a house full of God on the hill.

A house full of God inhales faithful voice with roses on its breath.

It presses them together
And nods its steeple over the vows,
The pews toying with the relatives;
The aisle rolling out its tongue
And whispering Godliness in their ears.

Service Station

A breath on the throat of the highway; to gather food for the brain and the body of your carriage.


I pull out the library's teeth silently, but oh! how much history are in those teeth!


To feel hunger in the mind is to be away from the city.

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