Sedate Postcard

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Siesta

The tiredness of the armchair,
the aches of the catatonic lamp,
the dominion of the window,
defamiliarising the sky,
the magazines and papers,
weeks old, unread, spread,
in a faint, onto the table.
Flowers with crooked elbows,
too bored to even die.
The discreet agony of sunny afternoons,
when sleep is the opiate,
and you drink and drink.

A Strange Postcard

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Birthday Letters from the Sea

To the waves he spoke little.
He preferred listening to them,
to their incessant conversations,
sometimes soothing, as though
old friends were recounting
parables from the lives
of the saints; other times
querulous, like lovers
cheated out of their hearts.
In his house, he softened
his footsteps, not to perturb
this unconscious communion.
Every year, on his birthday,
there was a letter spewed
by the sea: the ink, washed out,
congratulated the renewal
of silence.

A Postcard for the Lonely

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Versions of Solitaire

The solitude we seek
grows wild, between
thorny words and amongst
steep hills. It wears
the promise of home
on its sleeve
and it never smiles.

Loneliness is not as welcoming.
It unfolds its claw
where you would least
expect it; you need not
search for it. In warm and clean-smelling
beds it blooms, colourless,
and kills the silence.

A Postcard for the City Dwellers

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I was beginning to run out of interesting postcards to write on, so I decided to make a short trip into town and stock up! Now, I’d had my sights set for a while on several of those 100 postcards collections issued by Penguin, but especially on the one featuring gorgeous New Yorker covers. So I got it! All due thanks go to my mom, who generously (although – ooops! – unwittingly) sponsored this crucial purchase. Thanks, mom, I love you!

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For today, then, a poem as I imagine Fritz Lang’s M might have conjured up. (And, once again, I have to apologise for the less-than-perfect scans. My relationships with modern technology isn’t always ideal, I’m afraid!)

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City Life

Pray, don’t laugh at me.
I know I sound funny
sometimes. My mind plays
funny tricks sometimes. But,
tell me, do you never feel
these lights oppress you? Like
they’re trying to force a confession
out of you, as though
it were illegal to live?
These doors, too, squeezing out
people through their stiff
glass lips – they make me shiver
and, isn’t that funny, at night
I’m usually warm, darkness
is a goose down quilt, the best
kind. But not here. Pray,
pray for me. This landline
speaks in strange stutters,
it undoes my thoughts.
I apologise, it’ll take me
a while to adjust. What
did you say your name was,
again? No, no, I’ve always
wanted to live in the city.

A Postcard for the Coquettes

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La Sorcière

You can tell, of death or devils
she has never thought much;
the monstrous pregnancy
of her coiffure defies the skinless crown.
All claws and maggots,
those half-men, but
cloth and care, she,
gold and perfume. It has been
the zest of history
to gossip about death and the maiden.
But her womb accommodates
morals of another nature,
her flesh leaves no purchase for decay.
She will not cease, and for that,
they resent her.

A Postcard for the Droids

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Galatea 2.1 BETA

You blink and she’s gone:
the woman’s act is done.
Backstage, they feed her
hydrogen and petrol,
they insert miniature neons
in her eye sockets –
batteries out, of course,
so she doesn’t fight back,
or, god forbid, offer her opinion.
How pretty she is
(but this stuff is high maintenance).
With a few adjustments,
she’ll never get old.