David Jones


If one weren't so sentimental
One could get to like this place.
Where everything becomes complete
Just by floating on the surface.

The coffee and lamington rolls
Adorn the damp morning supper.
The eccentric scoffs a dry cough
While sipping on 'The Outsider'.

The dry sharp lustre of sunlight
Glares its ornamental intent.
A mirror splits and inside all red
One goes up floors to pay the rent.

Hours close in like a rectangle
Where the knees have bent on a chair.
Ponder how one drives up a wall 
In a moment of joy so bare.

One has measured life like a suit
With daily habits dark and blue.
No dream will match the sullen will
In choosing what and when to chew.

David Jones leaves the marble block,
Which after these years still looks new.
The plot thickens the shady dusk
And the world disappears from view.
 
 

Chiusi 5 11 2010