Lotte L.S.

Significant Others Scale

From tomorrow the gas-lamps in the city’s streets will not be lit.

Anatoly Mariengof, The Cynics, 1928

A and B, pressing against either side of a closed door / trying to fit the outline of each other / saying, when the fit seems close, only “now” / repeating again and again until certain.

Allan Kaprow, Comfort Zones, 1975

I want to remain just a surname on the list.

Oleg Sentsov, 2016

The sun unseen as through the holes of a colander
                                         lesser light strikes down / enters from the side
a place in which there appears no one / no body
                                         no budding romance blossoming / no we
just the I causing all sight to collapse
                                         jean-claws in the corner tidying his whiskers
the pubic hair drafted into shapes resembling a T-bone steak
                                         suddenly meeting like this
in the otherwise not-for-profit night

                                       no great vertigo
of language

                                       the trap staying tightly shut

no in here / just desire
                                         handed over in hyperlink-blue
with the tongue buried deep
                                         against the being of thought
the T-bone of feeling / the thought of being
                                         the feeling that did not want to be felt / with-
held

felt nonetheless

                                         a few words interjected / then

an ankle glances at a wristwatch
                                         a cuticle gazes at a sleeve
unseen in succession
                                         the face remaining the sorry same
unmoved by its own affect

gravity redetected

false speeches pushed into the mouths of plants
                                         the I continuing to make things im-
possible:
                                         cops out / cluster headache / ~total love & blessings to all~
sentiments evacuating every neural alleyway

                                         the I / meaning / sure
you can call yourself a communist

                                         doesn’t mean you’ll survive a revolution

                                         the world turning nightly
                                         on its axis
                                         escalators gliding with backwards brilliance

the complete and utter seamlessness of the story
                                         attempting to relate to a phenomenon that exceeds it

                                         all oaks in the area
                                         promptly pumping tannings through their veins

                                         pouting their plump lips
                                         in no one’s direction

                                         as though nothing on earth had ever happened
                                         in the thinker’s cell

                                         too many attempts to be meaningful
sky-writing “divination” 4 “strategy” against the clouds

                                         refulgent in its rain / desire underfoot

clock hands overlapping at a quarter to three


                                         proliferating I’s penetrating the continually

rewritten clouds / barricading all pleasure in the plural


                                         like attempting to tie a rose to a collision spot
or land “the people” jelly-side up

                                         jean-claws employing his whiskers to gauge an opening
                                                 in the fence
the assertion of people as single letters

suggesting

that the I seizes this experience and let it become sentences

too tired to try it again




Lotte L.S. is a poet living in Great Yarmouth, the furthest easterly outlier of England. More of her work can be read here. She keeps an infrequent tinyletter, Shedonism.

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