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April 12, 2010

“the advantage of it in the music was that there were no defences there either.”
Joni Mitchell

The girl is dashing back to her room along the corridor.
In this place, all is a little pink something we cannot be sure
of having seen, but makes us blush and thankful nonetheless.

I am vulnerable in this place.
As in a dream when I’ve forgotten to wear trousers –
the strangers common amongst our friends, peering like taps.

Here I stand without even the awareness to hide my penis.
And we mutter of our financial arrangements as if we were actual citizens,
when we’re clearly squirming tadpoles drifting in a cloud of touch.

The writing too has it’s embarrassments. Each of the words standing proud
from the body of text as though floating up
and waving someone away, and the disgusting letters bearing their holes.

Even now, as I am standing with grim relish
at the threshold of this place, it seems held at a distance.
Further still when I squint, squeezing it. Like a soapy member of the swimming club
you cannot bring in to your chest.

For we are still here, with this thicket of commas to hide among, and these fine swords
with which to defend ourselves – still braveries away from a place to live
among ecstatic, barely believable vulnerability, and die
under a mist in which are written the words we have spent our life in the wild sea for.

A thin and flexible vulnerability
as with the girl who has determined her new breasts will be squeezed
but not so they hurt at the seaside, and designs her conversation this way.

A vulnerability built of the finite that will vanish up the flue like our homework
leaving only the guilty-looking jowls of a dog.

The sky is vault of pounded water.
My eyes an ice sculpture at a funeral. The walls
a simulacrum of unpublishable diaries and reconstituted rubber.

I am winched out of the window as though I had eaten for many years
without glancing up. The air is the consistency of relishing victims.
Subject matter on the lose like an escaped zoo.

Vulnerability of the surface of our brain; a naked countryside
bristling in anticipation of the alien form: vulnerability of ecosystems.

Sometimes law a mythical, sometimes
a trustworthy asset, vulnerable as the diamond, vulnerable as the story
we fall asleep to at night and only believe we have forgotten come morning.


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