Category: poetry

“Words never rust, I promise.” That is what you said, remember?
Yet, it still feels like mocking Harlequin and Columbine at Tivoli.
And you can’t even wink now, once we have played all the classics
we never intended to. On second thoughts, perhaps you are right.
Maybe it is not rust, but the deceptive patina of well-kept devotion
to righteousness.

When windows become doors and doors windows,
when every next bus stop is a rushed page away,
and a kachina doll collection takes on such importance
as if my life depended on it, what is the cadaver of me
if not just another of my favourite contraptions?

I thought if I moved on, one day I would have a decent bed,
lined with satin strokes and a longing “once upon a time,”
with Chet’s Almost Blue and merrily misplaced cufflinks
in the background. Maybe even a bowl of strawberries
on the bedside table next to the iambi of a gentleman
in a straw hat. And there would always be a moment
to watch the magpies frolicking on the windowsill,
or a bit of bedroom banter involving cantharides
and the exchange rate for sea glass or pebbles.

I thought if I moved on, one day I would meet
the sentiment.

I remember when “for ever” simply complemented “are we there yet?”,
only to turn into “for as long as it is humanly possible” over time.
But as The Freewheelin’ has stopped spinning over the winter months
and only the seagulls can keep up with the cry, “for ever” is undefined,
for now.

Sometimes I take pictures of genre scenes
with half-empty bottles. I hoard them in rolls
of undeveloped film lying around in the drawer
next to old crayon drawings and library admonitions.
If there is enough time, I print watermarked labels,
but a tired glance is usually all it takes.

Perhaps you would like to meet my father
and grandfather, my uncles and cousins,
and all the other close and distant male relatives,
neighbours, friends, and enemies of mine
and theirs. These are the men from whom I inherited
the drawer.

When I close my eyes, will they shine
once you trade my touch piece for the waterway toll?
You know, there is no room for us both,
so we should not take that first bout of novelty as blithely.
But only the old know how to be silent, the old and the stillborn
splashes of ink.

I remember you asking me, what if the only autobiography is a few stains
on the shower curtain and an online shopping history? Would I regret it?
As we stand on the crowded bus, my fingertips brush against the spine
of the book in the bag over your shoulder, trying to recall the meaning
of printed words we read a long time ago. After all, why should I trust
my hands less than my eyes during this disguised lesson in the anatomy
of inconvenient bygones?

When there is nothing left but small talk,
like a sip of water, the silence goes smoothly
along with a bag of scorned books and a bundle
of letters conveniently undelivered on time.

When there is nothing left but small talk,
we can finally abandon all pretence of trying
to master the Voynichese of inherited scars
and never quite perceived inadequacies.

When there is nothing left but small talk,
the way to survive one more tepid cuppa
is to feign that somewhat bitter awe admirably,
and yet not to behave as we are expected to.

It’s Sunday morning. Someone on the telly mentions Wordsworth. You know him
vaguely, akin to one of those random Latin proverbs you try to impress others with
while pretending not to notice labels dangling from your wrists. It’s Sunday morning.
An early breakfast gives you something to brush off. But don’t worry, a bag of cashews
as a treat: Perfect for snacking or sprinkled into stir fries or curries, will be your only
attempt at perfection.