&youclosethedoor.Wednesday, June 3, 2009
at 9:19 PM;
combined literature, D3SR6
the green-tinted sunlight scatters off walls, whitewash
plaster peppered with silver freckle-dust;
crystal facets in fluorescent-blue flicker.
if walls could talk, there would be silence, privy
to white-noise rustle
of opened cracker-packets; soft vibration
of a correspondence more welcome
than that ringing out
across the gridlock of plastic desks.
look down,
look up; anywhere but
the searching eyes, unforgiving countenance
seeking for a sign of weakness;
an outlet for rage.
the floor is grey. this training centre
for the concrete jungle; sneaker-dirt topsoil
and sheaves of neatly typed leaf-litter.
the sky is off-white with neglect. false ceiling
and multiple false suns; together with false promise
of false walls in false cubicle-heaven. no,
no heatstroke, not in this age of climate control;
the lie of the land
fill, lie of mutual deforestation assured
global nuclear warming.
time is a discrete variable here, one o'clock no different
from ten fifty-seven as stick-thin hands move
with the intangible weight of
forty-nine pairs of eyes
but only when you're not looking.
P.S.
'no comment' hurt me deeply.
i named my guitar after you, because it's beautiful, but you're so much more beautiful.
the rest is silence;
