eight

there are tiny red scars on the insides
of my arm it's hard to tell why.
rolling back my sleeve i see
verbs conjugated with être
faintly listed on my white skin.
tramps demand rrv (three returns to
versailles). examining my hand, i see
my timetable (unreadable) again,
and scribbled, faded, blue reminders.

on the palm of my hand sprawls
a thickly smudged line of faber-castel.
it used to smell like liquorice but not after
the rest of the day acted upon it. it smells
like blankness now. i love liquorice but
chocolate liqueurs shaped like tiny
bottles are what cry out "drink me! eat me!"
look my veins are full-speed-ahead-blue:
blue rose petals after dark, still glinting brightly.

all of life's profound essentials are
strewn across my floor, hastily shoved back
into what almost resembles
a pile, in an attempt to contain them.
i know everything would simply
overflow and drown my carpet; essentials
tend to be selfishly swallowing. there
are batteries, moisturiser, a torch, a journal,
blistex, black and white and colour film,
and socks with colourful, artistic, sinuous
splotches and numbers on them.

in your tremendously tall and strenuous
sunlight, oh vision of paris, you are
wonderfully metaphysical, intangible, red,
somehow green you will squint at me
through smashed lights i know you will
speak and feel everything beguile us
all perhaps even me i lunged into an
incensed dream last night as the fierce
night rode on the sky i'm fearful of the
thinness of two hundred and eight hours.
written: Wednesday 8th September 2004, 9:55pm.