There is a smudge that lies underneath my finger tip.
This smudge is my reminder.
The minute ridges the rift between us.
Your expression never changes,
Mine dims in the electrical glow of a documentary
About Charles Saatchi.
Contemporary? This contemporary world that
Tears papers and twists them until they’re art.
That hushes voices and destroys the mouth
But strengthens the finger,
The one that made the smudge on this key.
Stop the shark from swimming!
He knows his place lies in Perspex.
Then stop me from speaking,
My place resides behind this screen.
My own glass box with plastic borders,
Give me back my mouth to hear me scream.
My bed lies unmade but I hear that that’s ok,
Something about conceptual art?
I’d ask you what you think
But your computer screen is off.
So the wires linking our worlds say
“Do not speak”.
I wish I could cut those wires
And escape from this septic tank
Straight into the arms of a friend
And look them in the eye.
I’d like to smell the breath of a stranger
As they speak their name.
God, I wish there was a way for this finger
To leave it’s smudge on your temple.
They’ve pushed bluetack onto walls and called
Their prints art.
But how can I speak with my finger?
I wish I had my mouth.