Saturday, 24 May 2008

Zoe / Zoe

Is a poem written for her about her.

Hand set in metal type blocks of different point sizes and blind embossed in letter press. Made in this such a way meant like a letter sent without a recipient. The process and the result questions a hopeless romantic in doubt.


Wanting to say this to you,but
soon left without any to say.
The grain of the voice as Barthes described.
The incomprehensible sorrows of Plath to stay.

Night after night, The Sounds played.
What's left to fight since Philonous is all that's right.
Play it all over this May;
the explanations, the questions, the plague.

You're everything I'm not.
You're lying in the zookeeper's dike,
in the middle not without a hide.
Dim the lights, you're my god damn greyish sky.

I never thought it will be okay
taking all her pictures from the freeway;
singing in dismay,
the covers up her face.

The musings for a shout!
Do not think I missed the crowd.
All the dreams we cry out loud.
All the trash left no clues but clouds.

Hylas trapped in despair
and suspense in all things terrible.
South London forever 'til he gets ripped apart
for a dozen years to start.

The ink blotted the rug, she
dreamt only of the stud.
Not tea in a pub nor
crack in the tub burnt Babylon's luck.

The caryatid had your daze;
not for many days, she
wore a crown when you're gone.
Let me tell you,
he wouldn't be here long.

Vanished! She was gone
along with those eyes that sang no songs.
All the primary foliage in cruel winter's wave,
Zoe couldn't wait couldn't stay.

But you never told me I was late.
You never wanted the last scrape
of blades that ran in summer's wake.
You never stayed.

Found something but
not for tonight.
The eighties without parties.
The sloppy rides in giant flights;
they are memories—sliced.

Zoe in oversized shoes;
red and sly.
and given away.

All the things I couldn't say.
All the time we gambled away.
No lover in sight.
Nobody beside.

This time, Zoe, this time!
No more chicken cooked
in microwaves nor
scrambled eggs like


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