AMY HARRY
ROTHKO DREAM MACHINE
Half room. Half wounded.
fresh unscabbed paintings on pause two red towers are
mumbling hostages.
Breath and language cuts
through the vents.
Room beats. She breaths.
Room breaths. She speaks.
A bare arm pushes through elastic periphery
into the centre of space.
She releases gallery snagged and curator scrambled tape.
The dim confused engine grinds.
Spin, Room 3, Spin.
Dream, Room 3, Dream.
Room 3 dreams of gossiping red bliss.
Red hair. Red Trainers. Red post tube.
Red solid set paint stuff. Blushing.
Red is chattering through the security cameras
is cyclist at traffic lights with HGVs and blindspots.
is distant marching abattoir.
is flags we will raise at Whitehall.
the spilt grey wall cracks the film with
undeveloped frames.
The throbbing emptiness of the photos Mothers won’t make it into.
Oh shit. Futureland is too red. Too loud.
Slammed door loud. Shout loud.
‘I’m sorry for the thought’-loud but throatstopped.
What do you think?
If it had meaning what would it be? What would it be?
Did you? Did you?
Don’t ever say that. No.
What do you think?
If it had meaning what would it be? What would it be?
Did you? Did you?
Don’t ever say that. No.
What do you think?
If it had meaning what would it be?
What would it be?
Did you? Did you?
Don’t ever say that. No.
Red Nike ticks kick out of Rothkoland
Rothko Manor or Towers
Merlin Annual Pass yourself to dreammush.
Leave the red. Leave Room 3. Leave dreams.
Out in fresh air this world I call Ceilan.
She tells me she remembered her dream today.
Normally she only remembers her nightmares.