luni, 8 martie 2010

An architect's taste in gothic

Words jostle in my mouth
Trying not to be enemies
But then I see you, and they hide
Confined to the rigors of bashful solely
And I become plain crumbs of me,
Some odd Egyptian crypt delivering a beam
Before your look away shrouds it in beige tarpaulin
Words stray from me as you forget to nod at them
And build up silly instead,
Or my tragic feeling of it.
The hungry motion of your eyes
Disjoints my self-awareness,
And throws me inside tiring interludes,
Where all I'm given is a comb.
My chatter thieves both of my hands –
Left mocks me with incorrigible farewell
Whereas the right pushes me in your greeting.
My final voice slides through your cleanly ears
To thoughts opposite to me,
To memoirs devoid of Chekhov…
But for some reason, I never stop putting on rags,
I never stop to learn the graciousness of quiet,
Of muslin walks through my inlying Yorkshire…
I comb myself to death instead.

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