hieroglyphics seeping through the walls

stain this pastel contrivance

            of measured dementia

a riverboat red

skylight strangers abseil in waves

into the expanding ocean 

            this warehouse floor

colder than the engine's oiled efficiency

            firings its cylinders

                        a refusal of guilt

Hauling these faces on swollen chains

I rub sweet rust into my bloody wrists

            this is no longer my room

            these are not my pastel walls

Truncated imaginings

            incarnate in steel

in symbols of arcane deliverance

                        and bondage

stretching courtyards and wire mesh fencing

rising heavenwards

soldiers patrolling outside

            mouthing silent words

                        bereft of weaponry or purpose

The walls they weep a steady stream

            (a colourless fugue)

And these hands they will not dry

(to the non-memory of Nicholas Ingram)

6th April 1995 (11PM)