Someone holds mistletoe
up, right in the face of
disaster; a childish
attempt to re-unite
the atom with its other half.
The screen lights up like
a Xmas tree: Cocteau
painting a flower, ends up with
his portrait. (Restriction
(pattern) results in description of form.)
One syllable less and
the profile vanishes
mine appearing. Kiss me.
'Is there an aesthetic
defence for the hidden?'
Only if the result is distinctive.
It bears a resemblance —
were it not for the sweat
and blood, the fighters could
be lovers. Hard to distinguish as
they try to distinguish
themselves, extinguish each
other. There's a dampness
about these goodbyes which
anticipate catastrophe. The sand inside our
shirts and shoes, and the sand-
wiches. Tinsel glitters,
Xmassy vowels dotted
around a room full of
smoke a little tattered.