broken legs

Watching re-runs of Goren and Eames
I’m back in a city – however small
Its funny how re-runs elicit the years

But I don’t know who I was in the year these were made
Perhaps that’s why well lit charades
Hold such fascination such simple fiction

An alternative to filling in the gaps
Of other streets and other lights of
So many fuel filled evenings and mornings

Where high heels kicked footballs on grass
And dirt and somewhere in a different city
Two actors put on their makeup

As I put on mine
Inhabiting artificial lives
I’m watching them now, I know I don’t have to ask the other question

Out loud I’m waiting for a canvas to be delivered
Where her eyes are green, her lips more geisha than that
Irish hair which curls and waves and falls below her chin line

The skin blanched almond white
Losing myself in the luxury of the etiquette of fine art
Another charade marked in time between canvas and a dvd

It’s this life I‘m in – wondering what they’re both doing
No more Goren no more Eames
And no more me.

Words: © J. L. Nash, 2010
Images: © Predrag Pajdic, 2010


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