The Reptile House

Thinking of buildings being like monsters; I got a sort-of poem from my automatic writing today. It's a bit crap, but I'm really tired. I was hanging out with two composers till late last night and they wouldn't stop talking about programming languages. I was so bored I actually started reading the dictionary at one point; there was no other book to hand. It was storming outside, throwing down handfuls of rain like gravel, and then there was storm light on the houses afterwards. The house where we were had the most enthusiastic yet inefficient toilet flush in the world; it made a huge noise, and the water whirpooled round and round for ages... while the paper floated determinedly in the middle of the vortex. Science could probably explain this.


The Reptile House

She sees it nightly, outlined in ink;
wind shakes the jungle gates,
the clink of iron in her dreams.

Last time they went, they didn't speak;
didn't look into each other's faces.

Instead, they watched the plants,
thermometers, the dust.
They watched, with care, the possibility of life

as if it were a book they longed to read.