Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
Artwork by Paul Peter Piech, 1991. Words by Arakida Moritake. © the Estate of Paul Peter Piech
She lives in a time where names
are a generation out of date,
where words freeze just a fraction
away from the Up of her tongue.
Yet she can tell, to the very ounce,
how much tea and sugar
she got each week of the war
and where and what it cost.
She can convert new money to old
and tell the price of everything
in shillings and old pence.
Yet she cannot find her way home
from the shop nor even know why
she went there in the first place.
The fat clock ticks and ticks and ticks and tells
Me stuff I didn’t want to know I knew.
Across a million billion windowsills
The stellar dust is whispering of you.
A Balkan website that I can’t access
Texts messages to the Uranian rings.
Since Tuesday last American Express
Are threatening unimaginable things.
A changeling with an enormous head,
A forky tail and huge, prehensile claws,
Is swinging at the bottom of my bed
And doesn’t seem to want to stay indoors.
Call me. I’m waiting for your call. What’s done
Is done. There’s nothing here for anyone.
I came to the small peach of a month,
to the bushel of days,
to a cairn of minutes
where time was buried
I came to the September of a second
where trees stood so close together
they looked like the last night of all
I came to the latchkey of the moon,
to the source of rue
No one saw me perched on the wrist of the world,
no one saw me flying to such heights
or knew how long till I came back again,
like crimson returning to god