In-Between #12 - Sean St. John
ten minutes fast
skin-slashed chopping board artichoke hearts
left over from dinner broken
tipped knives used as back-garden
circus throwing stars
pent up anger of adolescent sons stone
flowerpots overgrown on sills with
thyme
the metallic clock runs ten minutes
fast on purpose
past two am landlady in bed and everyone
a conversation I had this evening
about cezanne’s portraits
with a russian artist from germany
stays with me
shouting over music brushstrokes technique and
images
of snow she loves as we sweat in
bars and now
my new apartment has given me a new
mind
dormant psychosis energy absorbsion coining
words
only
writers awake dreaming about being writers
and
other writers writing hidden in the dark
peacefully drunk I flick through pages
of a Bob Dylan novel I found but
psychedelic
lyrics are too long for this decade
I’ve been taught to love one-line philosophies
I can paste
into twitter with phone camera
shaky pictures
attached to no relevance and
animals dancing
at the foot of the stairs leopard-skin high
heels
kicked off two weeks ago snapshot
for vogue
on black and white criss-crossed
floors
where gritty factory photos remind me of
watercolour nudes
I’ve never painted and I no longer
know my own friends
with ex-fathers of the greed
generation
while we suffer from despondent disillusions
and diffidence
towards a future rental fee
extortion outbid on art
the comfort of piracy everything’s
ours on a two week loan
and we only have these thoughts when the sun’s
off
duty supervision from the stars
climbing
the stairs we hope to find
sex in our beds and forget about fluctuating
thoughts
of emotional extremes that really
should be
looked into if I only knew a doctor
and ideas for inventions we don’t understand
and messy kitchens
inter-continental disputes
untidy phrasing cheap replicas of
life itself
we can just fuck until it turns to love
and let the world crumble under
someone else’s watch
with no woman to watch him
translate beowulf again
serenity in the loneliness of words loneliness
as he embraces the empty concept of
humanity
non-existent realism abandoned for
stories
personal glories the myth of
perfection and connection
Biography: I suffer from the terrible affliction of writing poetry; it’ll be the end of me, I know it. I sleep with an unread classic under my pillow every night, but I’m yet to remember any of them. I daydream about the day poetry becomes a viable profession; those Romantics don’t know how easy they had it.
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