Poem in Which you Make me Feel

some things matter more than reading
Ariana Reines,
more than a leaking teenage diary
& the way I modulate
my accent depending on who’s talking:
your plaster & tinsel face every morning
for example. It’s kind of gothic.
But since when
were you American? Since when
did a dark triangle of hair constantly show
through your heart-space? You said
there is no real & there is no reason.
This was very definite – a grinning couple
cut in alabaster. I guess the sculptor wanted
to disarm the macabre, or speak
about madness as a kind of knowledge?
We know art & feeling matter
more than most other things. The geometric
cheese assortment. The Venetian
table. Your hair smelling of unripe apples.
At dawn, a girl outside
the basilica crept into shot
wearing a goat costume. This was weird
& totally distinct from everything else
in the frame. Our cheeks, redder than embers,
for example. You said my head smelt of potatoes.
I said let’s dance let’s dance let’s dance
let’s dance………..hoping it would work

Ben Stainton

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One comment

  1. Pingback: Poem in Which « Hello, Fig

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