Thursday 26 September 2013

A Letter

















Every time someone uses the word Enlightenment
a seagull bursts into flames

You are the love of my life
& that was so long ago who cares

Your blue-grey eyes & dancer’s limbs
& the warmth of your hair on the cold pillows

It was such a stupid building
with its cage lift & its rooms full of drunks & taxidermists (& drunken taxidermists)

The stars shone
& then they were silent

I have this thing about the night
it doesn’t exist & it’s all that exists

The machine of history
the death of language leaves us more eloquent than before

Even when capitalism has been overcome
I’ll miss you; your blue-grey eyes & dancer’s limbs & the warmth of your hair on the cold pillows

& the interesting things you said about Turner
& the day I found you as a C19 photograph in a shop in Reykjavík

Which is a lie
because I’ve never been to Reykjavík

Anyway, no one writes old-fashioned letters these days
so I thought I would

I’ve not much news: I got bored decapitating myself
I still wear glasses & listen to music

Once we just decided to walk all night
following the sinuosity of the streets

I wish we’d never come back
but kept going. 

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