I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library- Jorge Borges

Monday, 15 November 2010


I twirl my fingers
Through your brown, greying hair.
Moisturising my tips
With the oil from your scalp.

I tease myself onto your lap,
Open your hand and admire
The thick veins on your wrist.
The television consumes you.
Trickles of lah lah lah.
Irritate my ears.