I’m full of graves and guitars.

As if they’d give money for that!

It’s not frightening, it’s what I want. Although I don’t know. You won’t be there when it’s gone. That’s how you never even see anything.

If I could go up the hill, I could write a song as big as the cellar.

No, I’ll get round to it. Listen. If you don’t see how it ends, how do you know it’s ended?

Some of the graves are ships.

I spend eight hours of the day wasting my time. I’m not a romantic. I’d rather get paid. I like geometry, the calmness of those structures. If I could get to the top, I’d see what I’d lost.

Evenings are the saddest. Evenings in the hold. There is a song, just beyond the tip of the oh I don’t know.

They don’t pay you for your pain, they take money from you for it, because you’re no good at the things that don’t give you pain. It’s obvious, but I can’t see why. It’s bound to show.

There’s no darkness inside it, there isn’t enough room. You need space for darkness.

There’s no time inside it because of the war.

Just right on the edge of the maybe later, after I’ve slept.

Mondrian, for example. You think it’s ethereal, but it’s concrete for me. You just fill it with thoughts, so it isn’t. Even before I’ve started, you’ve started first. Always, so you don’t get to the voyage, not really.

Yes, if you said I was going to die alone and poorly dressed, you would be like the fortune cookie. Evenings are also beautiful, of course, if you make them like that. You have to put in more effort, the moon in labour, the horses in Cameron’s Field.

Its scalar. What do they say these days — granular. Einstein was right, so he was wrong.

I’m treading the vanishing path. I understand things by avoiding them. The more I avoid, the less there is to cause me pain. If you worry, that would be nice, for both of us, perhaps?

They want to pay you, so they can understand. If they can buy it, that’s part of the structure. You end up with the odds and sods, the bits left out. They can’t see the money in them. You try to show them, but they just take money from you, because they can’t understand. If they only looked closer, but they don’t have the time or the patience, they never really follow their eyes. Eyes are like wells, like rabbit holes. They don’t look down their eyes. They just see dice, but they don’t call them dice. It isn’t mixed up. There’s a grammar for it. Or, well — not rules, precisely, but still, a form of precision.

I’m not a romantic, I like circles, squares. Euclid. Rhomboids. Pentagons. Triangles.

They get paid, but they don’t see the moon giving birth to the foals. Then the money comes, and they see the horses.

They take the money off you, and show you the street. There’s plenty of room there!

I guess it is frightening, but eventually you’ll reach a circle, and then there will be no one. It’s like sleeping on a ship as it sails. Like the views you don’t see as you sleep. That part of the voyage, filled with everyone else. Even you.

If you don’t see how it ends, how do you know what it was?

Is it the last thing we have in common? How could you see? There isn’t a side or an angle. You can’t even negate it! How can you tell a song that it’s not a song? And why would you?

I give them the money I can’t afford, so they can go home and rest their eyes.

Graves are full of people like us.

All you can say is, it ends if you don’t see how it ends.

You see?


from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)
(this poem, October 2016)