Dirty Work

Whenever I took another greasy job, I convinced myself that it’s better to get your hands dirty.

The Shape

Spent the night recalling old voices,

listening to old songs in the key of lost years.

Two lights on in the bedroom

and an abandoned set of feelings,

rediscovered.

 

What am I to do with these?

Now that we both have new lives,

new lovers,

new problems.

 

They form a shape in my hands, invisible enough to pray for.

A shape of so many sides that it could never be described as a story.

It is heavier; more robust and consequential.

An object.

 

I do not know what to do with it now,

now that it is here again.

I have never been one to deny the significance of events.

 

I lie back on the bed,

and I think of a tin of paint

that releases a strong aroma

after having its thick layer of skin pierced.

 

There must be an art to this, I think to myself.

Arms

Tactics:

1. Surround them
2. Ambush them
3. Diplomatic negotiations
4. Air strikes
5. Sell them arms so that somewhere further down the line we have to enter into extremely complicated dialogue with them.

Urban Riff

Layers of dust piled into ignored corners where disguised handshakes lead to the shuffling of immigrants feet. There is nothing that cannot happen in places like this. It has all been consumed through the ages. Prostitution and narcotic deals, slavery and subjugation. Believe your eyes. Mystique has been bull-dozered to the remote spaces to make way for ten foot images of new technology and sportsmen. The mind cannot compute the combinations of visuals, or interpret the vast arrays of artefacts on display in the ever developing museum of present tense. Headlines drifted by in a haze of non-identifiable days that jack-knifed into forgotten months.

Shoes

A fact.

Since the birth of the internet, I have seen many more photographs of shoes than I would have liked.