Tom Cowin

Cafe Brutalism

Oh, I can see you now.
I can’t yet. Oh yes, there you are.

it could have been ages ago and

a dream inertia is constancy
we could regulate
a symptom with occasional days
shall we have coffee here or go
where there’s no background? I love
the fuck-it of your shabby anorak
days such as these fence off
our half-built ending
is a curve driving desiring
it’s like being inside a blister with these
huge windows and those dried rain stains
hard against the glaring space
desiring the symptom never caustic
no need to take the world into
account of something like longing
I’ve noticed when you move from me you leave
a trail of pale shudders, like the mineral
efflorescence on these concrete walls.
a bond to the semblance

 

© Tom Cowin

 

 

 

To the person coughing in the background on recordings
of Gurdjieff playing his harmonium improvisations I would say –

 

I have been all round these windows
feeling for where the cold is
coming from and still no, from
an acolyte past your cough, from
belief, this Siberian wind stripping
the dark from the night’s everything,
from the closed system in the ears
wheeze billow keys and chest heaves,
from the dust of the east wind strafing
the pavement. In the decay within
the limit trajectory of bone
spiral drum interference, I hope
to find a dissipation
to the warmth of the Holy, as fire.

 

 

© Tom Cowin

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