Watch my Head

The radius of the skull, if placed in direct juxtaposition to that of the proportions of certain Byzantine heads, will reveal a shocking naivete with regards to the understanding of human anatomy. Indeed, the Mesopotamians knew more and lived almost a thousand years earlier. So much for Byzantine depiction. But, I suppose that’s what happens when one’s head is thrust snugly between the buttocks of ridiculous dogma. From its beginnings until the fall of Constantinople. If I raise my beer from this humble, rancid oak table, you can see the watery relief print, the echo of the bottom of the glass. See how it resembles a skull? See? Looking down at my watch, I can see that it’s 9:55 in Tokyo. And, if one were to measure the perimeter of the broken circle of beer on this table and match it with the globe; taking the left most point (that point representing where we are) and following around to the right, one would end up precisely in the city of Tokyo; in good, old Japan. This is the poetry of things. So, I began with the skull. I have taken your hand, lead you to to Sumer; to the Royal Tombs of Ur, and bought you a drink. You have watched me drink my drink, place the glass back to the table; where it rested, for a while, before I drank from it again. Yet, you seem confused by the mention of Japan. There is no remedy, I just wanted to show off my new watch. It talks, in Japanese. A language which I don’t understand, yet, if you listened to me for long enough, you may believe I had travelled there once, perhaps sometime in my youth.

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Fibre Match

Hula hula. Sound the horn. Chaser lights in gravy. Tweed suits and serious issues. Young animals with death in their bellies. The attic creaks with secrets. Two people, far apart, think of a world without each other. Harmonica’s dangle from the rear view mirror. Speculation on coming catastrophe’s. Lightening left-right combinations. How to knock a person out from across the room. Drowning in fizzy piss and tears. Writing poetry in blood. A scarecrow cackling at your prostrate form, fingers clawing the wet mud, rain washing everything but the memory into the crop. Soon, sprouting misery, a last hurrah, celebration of the cheap-shot. Scratch your name into a beautiful wooden table top, you wimp. The building hums with spirits of all shapes and persuasions. Hymns ring out for the lost, the dead and the dying. We trundle on through piercing rain in the general direction of hell. Once, I dreamed of drinking a vase of wine. When I came to, the sheets were sodden and I vomited into the toilet. Floating in the acidic mess were pasta shapes spelling the name of a hard forgotten lover. Seventeen dictaphones placed in strategic positions record the comings and goings of this naked ape. This spasm of flesh and nerves. A trail of sonic evidence that this person did something ritualistic, perhaps obsessive, in this location, at this time and on their own. There were a second set of footsteps recorded however. These were more graceful, less easy to pick up at first listening. In lipstick, the words seemed slashing; red, violent and despairing. Deep in the pigment, there was suspended a memory of him. Though no fine tuned detection would or could pick up the subtlety of the trace. A thin cord attached them but for how long, who knew. It seemed as though it might break at any time.

Wait, what’s this; a new sun? No. Someone with their headlights on full beam while I try to sleep. On the boards, under the sea, halfway between you, halfway between me.