new musical express

the journey of the heart is full of skateboards
& the work of memory happens in the dark.
your hair smelt of books
as i turned its pages,
& when you said
“fuck off” in the car park
a great weight descended
& things began.
it was funnier than all those pills
i couldn't keep down,
you shouting “don't
look at me! don't look at me!”
& me with nowhere else to look.
at that moment i understood
what you meant
when you said
we exist in ironic relation
to ourselves,
& all the while your hair
flicked around in the wind,
a close-up from a silent film
to show time passes.

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ted@magicdog.com -- 1 June 1999