Sunday, 8 November 2015


Limboing under the tightrope to enter,
I realised that the last lot 

had wired up the downstairs
for maximum pain 

via ultra-amplified crackling distortion
and bone-combusting electrocution:

a vegetable-grater flashed like a lighthouse,
gurning its starspun charge

to the otherwise pitch-black kitchen,
where an unwashed spaghetti spoon fizzled

and the wind whistled murder
through a tenor trombone.

after Mona Hatoum, 1999, from Poetry from Art, edited by Pascale Petit, Tate Modern, 2010

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