Poetry

STUDIO APARTMENT: SUNDAY

Sunset honeys the bijou palace. Its dweller wishes
to turn the soft, grey page of a newspaper until his leisure
becomes unbearable. He senses nothing of merit can ever
happen in here. Neither a succession of great decisions,
nor great love.

It seems the studio and its dweller will fill and 

empty like any good organ. Gold flecks on the glass
of wine that he is drinking from, the mandolin lies aslant
on the rented sofa (although, only an hour ago, was seeking
so much playfulness).

He begins peeling a clementine. Now, this is very much
like the introductory part of an evening spent kissing – citrusy.
The bijou flares of gold bead oil miasma, while its dweller
derives and derives – thumbing the natural breaks
of what will come off, next.

STUDIO APARTMENT: TWILIGHT

Listen, someone on this street has absolutely no
control over their keys. Think,
no matter, no matter
They are like someone else’s unmarried children –
not your problem. Don’t you worry about heart throb.
Hunger works pro-bono and will bargain for spare
minutes on your behalf, no matter how slow you…
Wake up sweepstakes.
a voice says just as you decide to give yourself.
You are gift-tape pulling itself away from the roll,
the head of a blind worm breaking above soil.

FOR CARLO, MY NEIGHBOUR
Part I.

I am thinking about Carlo and the very first time we met.

He put his washing out, like a range of conditions:

underpants to woolly cardigans, all undergoing refreshment.

He left spaces, yes, but they were odd and unserviceable.

So this line is all for Carlo, the not so young Carlo, so what?

He is of today’s August character, naturally an inexact man,

a plural colour, like peach, a chalky voice, an erasable edge.

His house with the door wide open is shelter to unappreciated operas.

That morning, yapping to him as he weighted the line, ‘La Traviata’.

The Chatham Court neighbourhood communal, also called ‘the common’

should be more social, but in practice we choose to dry out alone.

I lift my head like you might pull out a bookmark, or raise a toast.

Part II.

I go across with my arms full of wet washing – to stand
face-to-face with the mighty geometry that is another’s.

I’m full of gusto. I open with, ‘I have nowhere. Nowhere.’ 

He goes, ‘Let me make you a coffee.’ which sounds like, ‘Bravo!
‘
‘Now?’ I say, and a whole day squeaks out from the slack in my bicep,
the very day that I begin to separate what could and could not wait.

And he says, ‘Maybe one day I can even make a macaroni for you.’

to which I start laughing. A coltish wind, through the clothesline
like voodoo. Shapes of bodies possessed then left, giddy
with stress only to be bucked by relaxation, indeterminate
knowing and un-knowing. Funny, funny macaroni.