'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Saturday, July 30, 2005

By way of an apology

I am plagued by dreams of you who I do not know. I fight you, one of you I throw like a doll and an old, wasted, bitter sofa I once found in a skip in Clapham catches fire, released at last from its mediocrity. I wander about alone and mumble love for those closest, making a prayer against the pain that I cause. I try to choke it up like I did to rid myself of a broken heart and you come in poisoned because of the space between us that my pictures have seen.