My Books

  • Click Away Close Door Say - http://www.contrabandbooks.co.uk/verity-spott/
  • Gideon - http://www.barquepress.com/publications.php?i=97
  • Trans* Manifestos - http://shitvalley.tumblr.com/
  • Balconette - http://www.veerbooks.com/Verity-Spott-Balconette

Sunday, 23 October 2016

The Haunted Inch

THE HAUNTED INCH

for Timothy Thornton

Our view is identical, crossed
out. At the end of these
walls is total minus:
Some absolute nothing
is there
         poised, imperfect
stasis. Containers, us too,
quietly humming eyes
pinned loose to peeling
shadows, the last planet
         to a final
         glint. Gone in us.

         Catching your face out
         & across;

nothing I have to prove
to you, that enormous face
in the sand, its curving vectors,
the gravity of its transmit
which is a wholly strange delicacy
wrought & gliding over
containers: Everywhere in stasis
         beyond this door,
the drop
without a centre; nothing to move deleted
vectors; a drop without a ground.
The slipped horizon a peaceful
nastiness wrought in faces & sick.
         The entire
         transmit sadness
holds the inch. The fucking inch
I am in I am in you & the, the snap
you answer, answer nothing. Nothing
calling back; save for a low terrible
         rumble miles below
         the sky, a minus.

We are quite alone but for these strange
movements, chilled mark near wall
where we are given over to
a once familiar now patched up
         moment, more fear in
         it. At some kind of desk, the lamp
for a way perhaps to stare down
or out. Out, the mistaken ambit,
this lamp, a view to a terrible darkness.
The perfect inch of air between
         frames is crammed with ghost.
         It is the haunted inch.
You put your eye into the inch;
it is locked out, to find the inch
a square, a neatly folded distance
in its softness
         unable to unpack.
         Standing there over
my head & shoulders
there is the form & shape of a man
moving over & around, standing right
behind me, we are adamant
         occasionally; there are
         four of us there
wearing nothing but ghosts.

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