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Jack Barron: 'Falling for Doris'

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As in winter : it’s shiver
weight upon the living room
for ether, the remote becomes
the beam of its hardware.
It moves obviously up from
the parks arrayed in gold. Doris
returns her elixir in hand.

Neon frayed and so blush
delights hang in our thin air.
Games like you go in for
the moment the aura’s silk
soars to home. The front
room : such lovely vanished
old lights call show time.

There’s sun also it glints
lately inside on the graphics,
that heart’s arcade lands.
Starlet oh you’re so famous,
enough light : to read just
silently by a deposition
scene arranged in careful wire.

It’s not that you’re not
open to a poem shelled like
a nut in dreamy syntax
but you prefer the glare made
unreal as if the wisps of
these structures rhyme. Doris
watches, our lone witness.

A favourite of the Stars
worn in finer beings my dear
spilt glassfuls from a screen
that’s all the possible damage
it spreads in firelit hearts
which within so small a room,
upset a dumb notation and

it returns again and waits
for a small drawing of breath
in the dusted faux hearth.
Ontologies of boredom take
to the stage. It’s : dreamt of
a manna ever restoring
itself to those upon their sofa,

a work in distress. Glitzy
worlds right before me
will glide on and off, a charming
pastime of the globe. Ring
a wing in rose : danced in flares
or their minor self regard
as happily a little like moths.

Mute it as we step out.
See, then there was us turned
toward reflecting planes,
a sense of the music
that plays through a ghost town
as if to discomfort. Doris
opens it : la bottiglia finale.

I’ll look at my watch my
defence of poesie and still lifes
and lose face in the nearcity.
My one flight : hesitates.
New fashion on water the wind
nestles itself in stiff rays. Hmm,
it seems we didn’t clock it.

But wind which flutters
away resolved on black water
is only by chance visible,
we try and call it taxidermy.
Daylight is tarry as you
slow too it moves obliviously
with incredible glamour.

Arc the voice at issue is
implicature finessed each turn.
It’s the living room we wait
to leave as choreography burns in
the wood. Light as nearness :
you value other things. Doris
spends it mostly on shadow.

It stops so easily, handled
even as it falls, though the move
won’t furnish our resting place
or wake the walls. You will pause
in winter too, to glissade on
an icy day and come to a stand
still decidedly : as possible. 

Jack Barron is finishing his PhD in Cambridge and living around North
London.

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