Photography by Reka Jellema. August 2014. Untitled.
This flesh I found,
a fresh spot
in the sonorous decay,
in rotting paint,
the kind that strips down
to bare plaster at a wink
and balks when you eyeball
a window pane or lick
graffiti from a fence --
You know of what I speak,
O soulful derelict, my mate--
The sort of wall that crumbles
at a touch, moans a little much
for the slump
of the over-stuffed love seat:
This is our place. A petrol hole
We filled our tanks
surveyed the mileage, held fast
to the knowledge
nothing is useless. Scrap
metal and street chalk,
a dust bin frottage
mounted on remembrance.
We like to look.
We like to look, to book a flight
Below us, sprawled in neon light
Erotic City, a homing device
Or so the rumours murmur,
mouthing and lapping one another
slick and sticky
with what may
or may not be.
Inspired by the words and art of Louis Hawkins
By Reka Jellema
October 2014
a fresh spot
in the sonorous decay,
in rotting paint,
the kind that strips down
to bare plaster at a wink
and balks when you eyeball
a window pane or lick
graffiti from a fence --
You know of what I speak,
O soulful derelict, my mate--
The sort of wall that crumbles
at a touch, moans a little much
for the slump
of the over-stuffed love seat:
This is our place. A petrol hole
We filled our tanks
surveyed the mileage, held fast
to the knowledge
nothing is useless. Scrap
metal and street chalk,
a dust bin frottage
mounted on remembrance.
We like to look.
We like to look, to book a flight
Below us, sprawled in neon light
Erotic City, a homing device
Or so the rumours murmur,
mouthing and lapping one another
slick and sticky
with what may
or may not be.
Inspired by the words and art of Louis Hawkins
By Reka Jellema
October 2014
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