This is no place,
A non-location not intended for memory,
One in the thousand other painted-on windows,
The city back drop,
For someone’s stage time.
Where people have gone-home from,
Leaving for somewhere else to go,
Weekends and late afternoons.
No place to live,
Nothing is done here,
Nothing waiting here,
Nothing is at stake,
Nothing is given here,
And nothing is worth taking,
No wind blows,
Nothing will fall from the sky,
Not an unexpected noise,
An inside without a ceiling,
Possessions without any owners,
And for all the clutter,
Not one dirty dish or piece of paper stands out of place.
In this place paint is not drying,
And grass has never grown,
Nothing here in-comparism,
To anything else,
Not a spark of life nor a stench of decay,
That might note a potential turning to waste,
Or watch days possibly grow shorter,
As lists appearing longer,
Or losses slowly mount.
A photograph taken will become part of this collection
A decision could slowly dissolve,
Into another dusty document never to be read,
No one here would keep score anyway,
A figment of imagination that ceases to exist,
Once it leaves your mind.
Connected on all sides to nowhere,
This is no place to go,
Conversely one impossible to leave from,
Absorbing all that might have happened here,
As something else, you don't remember,
If you ever really did.
Got an upcoming gig in Canberra which is centred on 'ends on the earth' so I'm trying to develop/redevelop some stuff related to the idea of places ~ and you know I don't just mean "Istanbul by sunset looked liked... (fuckoff)" and I'm so sick of trundling out the Paris-poem (so far my best expositional place-as-emotion/emotion-as-place thing). I have 5 days. I am rock n roll.