Like a latte but with ‘Ode On A Grecian Urn’
written in the foam on top. That moment
the strange, pale man laughs down the phone
in Lost Highway. As far as I can remember
I didn’t knock the wall or stumble,
the Bosch fell from its framed place
onto my foot without any prompt: each little piece
coming apart until it was a puzzle again. It’s a Velasquez
reflection. Or how in this light you can see the pixels
that make up my poor-quality Blake poster. Babe, I love you
but you have to stop taking notes
in the middle of the night,
or at least stop switching on the lamp.
Stuart Rawlinson is a writer currently living in Glasgow, Scotland. Previous work of his can be found in SPAM, and more is forthcoming with Moonchild Magazine.