for J
‘When you present
absence in your
paintings, then it
is unfair to say
what is absent.’
Featurelessness
turns hyperactive
and there is no calming it.
I can only aspire
to degeneration.
There is no decadence
left: I have
dissipated myself
for nothing. Our former
ragged-edged clouds
scab and flake off the sky.
The horizon has gone
to live over the hill.
There might be colour
or there might not:
what transcends appears
out of reach and
falls through
itself, a knot turned
inside out. Briefly
zero gapes
and the sharp
end of an asymptote
stitches up
its shocked eye.
At home too long
behind my own
I wear the face
of the earth: I blink
and the earth
comes with me
into the dark.
Do not think
of asking me what
I have failed
to paint. You’re
looking at it.
It is right there.
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