Iain Britton: “blue on black”

they live in walls

announce their intentions

set themselves up as domestic servants

movie-star       rejects

sickness beneficiaries

they infiltrate my loosely-veined philosophy

hands       hang from the ceiling

smooth /          calloused



an oiliness

softens the touch

to protect the archival value

of two people moving in unison


seagulls shit            dump froth

bamboozle onlookers  with their frolicking

they pull back  heads               your head

to a sky       rotating

blue on black


variety is in a conurbation

pouring concrete /       solidifying us in motion

and from it

small voices have their say

guess?     I ask / I stammer

someone is hammering /          breaking us up

we have our uses

we cooperate for one session only

and hands wipe hands

and then comes the signal for me to speak