scaffolding
packs down stripped of its
geometry
a lush pink Friday
dissolves &
an oleander tosses off stars
young people walk in stripes
destinations touching
heads & limbs
i flick on lamps
& birds perforate the shadows
i’ve this closet / full of factory music
gyrating new leases of life /
mouths / eyes / skin samples
become mixed up / / faults appear
ancestral priorities get muddled
i flick on my lamp
& read why buggers like you & me
bury our hearts
in tall indigenous trees /
good interpreters become priceless commodities
& people argue
which is the best camouflaged house in the street
who feeds the plants which push at the prophecies
which push the green blood through veins /
what remains
marks time on the spot
a gesturing xenophobic
walks in my shoes
The Red Ballon
pointillist spots
make all the difference /
a therapist holds me to her theories
on which coloured balloon
should i choose for survival
*
the bell on the roof
pulls its rope
& make-believers shuffle
through months of periodicals
glossily detailed for reading /
they bookmark pages
go with
the girls ripped open by the moon
they live for renewal
ticketed pilgrims clicked & stamped &
cleared for departure
the girls run red
along wet streets
where idols hang
like half-formed faces
*
self portraits
live cooped-up in houses
damp suggestions of another life
glad-wrapped into equal portions
*
i want to believe there are consequences
for going early from the party /
at the door a girl
is happy to give me a red balloon
Copyright © Iain Britton, 2016. |
