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Lady burns effigy

Dominic Eichler

A pencil moustache zips a head on
a body of ash meeting the future as
smoke
and the nostrils of a lady
with a stick for a poker

devoted to ornament
telephone lines drape façades
connecting tropical vines to ambitious roots

The chalky grey whitewash on the temple
in the middle of the lake
makes the flushed cheeks of families
on their annual holiday
look even rosier
rose on grey
This is not ‘whatever’ grey
it wants people in front

Nosey receptionist lazy-eyes a pink and plastic shopping-bag. Contents: a lonely man’s beer: two ‘Saigon’s, though Saigon is way, way south of here. In this rent room there are a number of choices regarding lighting:
1. A fluorescent strip mounted in an almost straight line high on the wall that you look at when you’re trying to sleep;
2. Spots romantic - two above the pillows and two above your feet; and
3. A lamp that won’t sit properly on sagging rosewood. It has a dimmer and a shade in silver, gold and white.

Whatever happened to Sister Mercia? And why did she show none? Where did she catch the Hepatitis that made her whites so yellow? Was she infected in the tropics? Was her mission accomplished?

I never wrote you a love poem because I thought it would turn out like a bad drawing and that the outline of your head, which I know best, would be skewed and your eyes would be in the wrong place looking in impossible directions - never at us - and that this misconception would not only not do our love justice but that it would also shame me forever. In short: that a bad love poem would be worse than no poem at all. I no longer agree with myself in the slightest as you read. And just as I have saved some of the notes – those dry domestic leaves, that we left each other about calls, our comings and goings and unpaid bills, I wish I could now hold a bad drawing in my hands instead of nothing at all. The man-to-man couple next to me is acting suspicious. He is Gay-dad paying Mr. Vietnam 1974 way too much attention. Gay-dad knows when he can cut loose from his tour group: After he has given them a speech like always - horny Gay-dad preacher man. Mr. Vietnam 1974 is tapping the table to avoid the enamored 59-year-old stare. The conversation turns uneasy. Now it’s all about who gets to leave and who not and therefore who might get to come back and who has to wait and who not. (For Danh, Hanoi, February 2008)
Starship Nummer 11, Seiten 29ff


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