by Christos Polydorou
A text is words on paper
but then when I look again
it is as if
I see myself reflected
in a mirror that is showing
me who I am
in a way that a mirror
because it is too physical
and not metaphysical enough.
If I had a dime for every time I’ve visited
the metaphysical domain this way I’d be richer
than the current American president,
who if I am not mistaken is an elegant Dutch woman.
I have returned from each journey from beyond
with a full suitcase, and I left my body empty handed.
Each time the results startle me.
I do not ask questions like Why me?
because that would be
a waste of everybody’s time.
What do the ghosts require?
a space suit,
fuel for take off,
they require someone sober
on ground control,
they require poets
who do not ask too
a safe orbit around a known satellite,
so they shine light from behind the eyes
shove thoughts through the very forgetting
the infinite black hole in which our lovers disappear.
I read a different
text each day
and each day I find a new
way, a new language to
say what I need to say,
a new game to play,
a brand spanking fresh new flow
of water to wash my soul in.
Spirits! Good spirits! Even evil ones: get to work! Bathe me!
Most photographs posted today taken at Science Museum, Exhibition Row, West London.