This is probably my most personal poem, although it's a bit cryptic...
Pastels in the hall
make a gentle impression.
Beyond, a frieze of seasonal blues,
wooden greys; everywhere,
everywhere, dark patches,
turning, setting, turning...
Panels uphold the old rules:
wait for them to recede.
Gold grates against greenish brass
of designer deeds;
ready-made regrets
are distinctive and orange,
enough to paint the earth.
The library of favours
is locked today.
Romance has its place:
a cheap vase on red linen,
indiscreet luxuries,
intimate hideouts:
glossy alcoves with cold linings.
Where can flesh be found?
Does it even exist?
Who knows?
Detail – always written,
never drawn – is monochrome,
oversized, dished out in bowls
to cover the expanse
of huge floors
waxed with confusion,
walls that appear on their own
and doors that become slabs.
Look! There are
antique marbles on the ceiling!
But the staircase is impossible.
Never mind:
vagaries are raining
from the chandelier.
Who could create
such an immaculate mess?
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