some untitled stuff i wrote around three months ago, but never posted
the tattoo on my body
is fading like a photograph.
i can see vague reflections
standing on the bathroom tiles;
a line, a hue
a bucket full of paint and needles.
it’s moments like these
that my thoughts turn into
something shadowy and illiterate
and the air tastes like cold gas
prepared for a suicide.
the sun’s patchwork is stitched
so that from nine to four
i have too much to show you.
when we stop at the alleys
we set off on ships to the south,
across the bathtub.
and when we get home
i want to take your hands
and kiss you
till the dust rests on our backs
and the carpet turns red again.
dreamweavers are made out of
soft sandal leather
and rustling tea-leaves.
they speak to themselves
and call you darling
just like the sea,
only gentler.
if you rest long enough
they will continue to evade
the hunters
which are large and breakable.
she fancies herself
as a tall lampshade
with pink frills
that strolls around on sundays
and remains quiet
in the most precarious places.
though she doesn’t breathe
her plastic nose is growing
longer by the second,
and she turns into a zebra
when the time is right.
i captured the little man
and put him in a matchbox.
when he began to realise
the trees and street signs
were only a backdrop,
he made his own rain
and drowned me off my throne.
i have got
penguin tuxedoes
shirts with prison-bar pinstripes
and silken slippers
with purple sequins
on stiletto heels
so i forget
the oldest tee-shirt
has my name stitched on
in the most threadbare places.
