Robert Adamson - Éventail: For Mery In Paris lyrics

Writing this in sepia ink on a Japanese fan, pain slants my calligraphy this way, s** just under the cap of my skull. Dreams taunt your existence as you swish by in raw silk until the words I use lose meaning and my best lines twang like limp old lace. This metaphor thick with blood trembles as my mind approaches the blank folds in the rice paper, writing on your arms, this scrawl scrolling through you, each letter a link in the chain between my head and the bed, a text of splintering syllables in which time comes apart, pricking your skin – the joke's our meaning, gnarled with the word-knots coming undone where your breast shines with the sepia ink and the sheets blot out thinking. Smudged with love, your bum's a haze of lavender oil as I rub this in.