Linda Marie Walker
Archivist of Spatial Delinquency
and Irresponsible Writing

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In the room

looking out, looking

looking out, looking

it is square, this looking

it is plain and square, this looking

in the room

all of a sudden, suddenly

waiting with waiting

for the love of you



It is all to be done

still, in the stillness,

still, who will come

still, who will call

it is all to be done

to see the slow

slow to see the

see to the slow

the slow to see

already red

already blue

already black

you are




The evening here

in the room, love

alone with the steps

yet there are sands

oh, and now the bells

and the crying cat

and he said, mist


and the woman

died, the girl, the

one who walked

he wrote to me, sent

the map of the bridge

her final step

with love too, sure





The door closes

words so small

snail slow

yet harsh black


was, said by


who now who

tell me who

please tell me

who, is fading

will you will you


no no-one

not now



With near shots

swallow your tongue

or for this writing

give me your tongue

to tell sweet water

close ride on

smooth teeth, the

mouth then, sure

must you

as usual say, and

say, where quiet

comes no, no, who

is no-one to know

this you

speak, love

in hills

dry rain

falls, even














The red soaks sudden

she says

as if true

well, there are

sure crimes and

surely crimes


sure dance and

surely dance

and, actually

within the time

I have he, for

the love of

soft folds of

an open shirt,

softly stays

away, and



Coming too late

this first time

of writing where

writing is made

and traced and

all she can do

is hear the call

in her for her

quickly passing outside

cold eyes and rhythms

behind bright words

not from here

out for another

not these fingers

that’s what is said













To cry when it

is time to cry

left calling as

a tiny eye, a

move, or less

sway on the chair

by the door

peeling off, that’s it

just pushing off

and passing, sitting

here at the table

and the rice


All to say, and all

to throw, simply rolling

our look in the kiss

in the kiss of the kiss,

while children sing,

across the cheek of

kissing, when there is

no kiss in sight, this

is when the ear opens

in the air, exactly,

toward one point, toward

the engine, the real

parts of broken

speech, to see in the light,

the stars, with two

eyes, not one, kissing


The swallows, he said,

come for the swallows,

each day the swallows,

come, each day they are

chased from the room,

the swallows’ room, and

I see the swallows who

come to see me who has

come to see them, in the

swallows’ room: I have

come to the swallows

room to be with the one

who said come for the

swallows: I am here



Small passes, passages

making a way through time

hoping I will sleep, and this

is time, wishing in sleep with

time to dream, praying sleep

and dream will bring

morning well and warm,

with kind cushions of sighs

for you from me if I

should chance your body,

in the street say, or at

the bar where you might

be talking to Rosa or

someone else, Michel say, or

a stranger, a woman who

will for me be, of course,

your lover, and from whom

I will turn and walk away,

for I am a coward, too,

afraid not to be, and I’ll

climb into the room, as

I will have prepared my

softness in the other



She said, come on

read, and see the

flower in colour,

two pictures, one in

grey with a boat,

on the blue sea, and

why are you yelling

at me, why are you

beating me, in my

eye, in my nose,

are you seeing my

insect face, is that











The voice alone

the voice

three moves,

and he will say

he doesn’t think

three goes with voice

and he is right

and yet it does

with sound

with sense

with speed

goodbye now

for instance


These words for you

now: in the meantime no

sentence, perhaps, or

tomorrow too, for reading:

a few questions


Page by page

small bare songs

small dry bones

minor films

eye contact and deep

lips smoothed in

and out, cutting,

let’s pretend

while the throat

moves into the feet

going house to house,

wishing no mistakes

yet speaking when

another speaking sorrow

falls to the ground

heart split











For the love of a



a love

and love, zero

along the horizon

there, in front of me

as landscape

in the summer

in the tense of

sullen anger, tracking

stones in the dusty

fields, hunting the

hands of a silence,

a gentle slope, the sea

in the distance, a flat

grey plane


This is addressed to you, Anton,

these lines are for you:

I missed this page, that is:

I skipped it first time through,

and now, having come home

at an hour when we’d be

exhausted from dancing, so

many years ago, and

embarrassed at what I

have written, but unwilling

to change or abandon it

altogether, in the kitchen, with

the door slightly open, and about

to light one of those cigarettes, I

say to you, and I mean say, as

you know my voice well: you

wouldn’t believe how alone I

am in love, and knowing it:

such awful lines too, but

it is late, the night is cool

and calm, almost beautiful










Yes yes now that

sleep has come for some,

resolve lost this night

a last night

always this

which has followed

faithfully: the love of,

for a creature who is

named, ravished,

out of range of him,

and this bravery,

ill-placed, grounds

toward him, who is

of course nothing but

longing for the happy

arms and


Alright, it is clear

that my attention is

given, easily, to what

alarms me, and is not

over, as an event, which

gratefully floods me

cell by cell, a half-open

window, a burst

of heat, a slight breeze,

and the face of someone,

and then this, the love

poem that nobody

wants, it’s not for them,

it’s only yours, and you

can’t read this, and this

is the blow that kills