Thursday, 26 March 2015

A Certain Level of Metal

A poem written on walking past an arrangement of  Jim Dine art pieces in the 'Drawings' section of The British Museum. 

Saw – a language between the chords
Swelled – a stifling ripe tomato
Felt – the lungs perpetuate their slow sad breaths
A fog which declares it’s ‘fine’ again

As the clutch
This time is human
Selects a handtool, but with legs open
What have we become?
Is there time?

Carving out the white highlights of the face
In the shale a-scattered round
From an attack – old nibs, needles
Razor blades

Each strand of hair, intact, yet unbound. 

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