kulturbrille:amanuensis

In a room reeking of paint, and finally having come thus far, I am almost ready to begin afresh. Halfway through an epic 2007, books and obligations, work and remembrances, lessons and dreams, jostling in a room emptying slowly. There is now the slow putting together; twitter, smugmug accompany me for a while, until I too have to leave them behind. Words swirl about me, as I finally lose sight of land; over the horizon, on all sides, I am at sea.

Where will I find, what do I seek? People come and people go; some linger, others evaporate, still others persist, insist on this and that manner of doing, being, seeing, and there is only tonight, the ceiling awash in a kaleidoscope of colours and my fingers, stubby now, and all manner of obfuscating and annoying descriptions leap to mind, but just fingers, spread out over a typewriter I superimpose on this ugly, pasty polymer. Did you call me, did you say you would stay. In the pursuit of another, fleeing from myself. Have you a consonant to spare, dear sir, is that a comma in your hair? You’ve put your dreams in the wrong pocket; you’ll never find them. Welcome home, vanishing elephant. You are pink beyond compare. I embrace your shadow such that you will never know me.

In Melaka, there are traffic lights.

Flowers
Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You’d come along
And say you’d nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while