16 November 2009

Untitled 11152009, 9:08 p.m.

"Monday. Delectatio morosa. I spend my doleful days in dumps and dolors." - Lolita, HH, VN: Page 43

"The dream has gone but the baby is real / Oh, you did a good thing" - This Night Has Opened My Eyes, SPM

Untitled 11152009, 9:08 p.m.

The haze flattens out as the bus pulls away
Ahead, to the right, three Russian hags gorge
Bend awkwardly at the waist, their object no feint
You see yelping smears of eye shadow first, then allow
Knives of cake-thick perfume, the bus reels, stereoscopic buzz
Over the steel-lattice grating stretched across the overpass
White thread spills past the womens' chattering yellow teeth

The hum weaves, targets used to being broken
Appear in the road guiltless and naive like a pedestrian
Drunk on thumbs and dumb with wit; how a smell
Can be a manufacture of providence, yarn braids between
And disappears underfoot to you-do-not-know-where
No foreign sounding utterance nor vicious scent

We are alone, again. Prick-wise and solemn
With shoulder-blades each rough brick counted
One-by-one by the inbetweens the corridor begins to boil
Your hands my hands your fingers my fingers your fantasy my fantasy.

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