Miranda Hinkley (in the studio): ‘Goodnight Vincent’ by Niall O’Sullivan.
Your cocky chair nearly had us.
Almost a dare, rather than an invitation.
You skew perspective, pitch that hard clay floor into our faces
And yet those roots reach out from the box of onions,
Prove that the truth, the will, cannot be contained.
A blunt offer, but still an invitation.
Please be seated, minus the please.
We reciprocate with a bi-millennial money-tainted gaze.
Scanning for some e-mo porn,
Omens of tragedy rumbling beneath thick smears of beaming yellow.
Perhaps it is more fitting that when the floor no longer squeaks
With the gait of rubber souls,
After the day’s last echoing whisper signifies a constant failure of words
Photons cease their frantic dance with no retinal rods to catch them.
And I like to think that you’re invitation still stands,
And it is the silence, the stillness, the darkness that accept it.