We Are in Sri Lanka
            After Made in Chelsea

Imagine being able to put your phone
On airplane mode. Imagine

We are in Sri Lanka,
Dipping our persons in amid
The glittering fragments
The junior boat captain(s)
Notating, dimly, the spaces between

Our personal scheme.
It seems inevitable for us
That congruence of such fantasies
Punctuates the work of abstraction
(How you felt in your capacity
As adult, and in
Sri Lanka)

And while that process
Does hold out the promise,
The understanding
Does so without shortcut,
A second, binocular Angle
To which we are slated from birth

Called mirth.
This isn’t a play-by-play
It’s a transaction history.
It is the legible gift of precipitation,
Those saying we should be ourselves
Might vie, once, twice
For in a life

There is nothing else but Tim Tams.
Liv speaks,
‘We are in Sri Lanka!’
The offspring of this night,
This right, this teasing
Shy of frith,
We are made ourselves again,
Matched by the equable showinesses
Of plenary heads.

You emote into the screen,
We are in Sri Lanka,
Knowing full well how this will be received,
Whose prefecture will be displaced,
Told to sniffle with signification,

Localizing, among all the change,
The summer projects of yesterday’s
Summers. Most complete.
Aren’t we – Liv?

Delete. Among the slightly
Altered visions,
Sounds of wind in, what,
Trees, the craft so longe to lerne
Traipses in, and disturbs
Our melting at the Savoy.

Or was it just that boy across the sillion,
That crosses our mind, apolitical,
And gives our word for the day?

Ideal relations, wouldn’t interflex
In the counterchange of boroughs
With words of selfish herit-age
To blame it all on me, refuse these ears:
                                                We can index
To solace awkward scenes in third-rate

Bars how wrong it is, how nice
                                A console of the fuck
The less should Tif had found we’re miles apart;

I litrely will forget the shit u made
In chelsea chacing nites we chose to
Have. intending to sun tan
Where the habsburg empire
Grafted to the wilder Sian,
The ensign Zion, the cuter Ell
The savaged Victoria line.

Monogamoute, i love you from the bottom
Of my cheating decks: i spin before the ethic of
Disastrous success, with each surcease
Sursouse. The hyper-tonic candie, apt
And cute,

For sea-knots of depth, we waunt gravely,
Bavarian cakes or Boston cremes
The great portent of shaggy rugs and fur-shawl

echoes of fore-shortened mind                                   
Who bends with the retriever
To regroup

The vibes to flirt
Prolonged by repetition
Of the first exposed to
Road-rage of bending pain:
Say what i feel?                       

Love is not premeditation

It felt apt and cute to say
It in Mihiki,                      you lost yours
To pre-set abs of the red-red limbnody

And that’s all one;

A Non-starter on the Thames
is hot espousal,
The absent segue, and us
A mirror-hall to
Squander hourly feuds

stressing what I
should be concentrating more
On what you did,

How we get into the hypertrophic zone,
And stay there.
Moon – the farrier of our flitting passions
Cruising 1860 butterflies
Or was it
A different pleasure entirely,
Fordham bridge,
Say, or Dunbar queering

The chat we must forgo till there’s a chance:
We need to talk, in tears sweet face or jet away
For two of us the camera gives leave space
My problem becomes you, too cared to note

The time exacerbates apart, the years have
Frigated winter passage through without fatigue
The city limits bind our circus haunt

cinnamon water the royal borough
is a bamboo shoot

O antifone; is that a bentley, Keven?
Not a concerto but a topographical aim.
Meanwhile adoring me                                                           
You feel your shame in bulk

hary baron was fucking correct,
Last thing i’d ever want to do, not plaised
To hurt; karma’s a bitch & im an idiot,
Logic of error flocks, where impudence abounds.                       

We have a fucking good relationship

It’s just not working;
                            a poem has many a function;
As the Ritz was once a destiny           
The petulant champion of sundaes would Hazel
Sit in the lobby with lemon-yellow sucking candies
 && the gentiles would weep,

Or was it still a different pleasure:
A pleasant charade,     the false in duple,
                             cucumbered with
humour of debate, inviolate decorums

You’re the ex for no reason,
on account of opal aciditatem
Rather exterior indent, cruise of novel

It was not the unrubbing of our two persons,
The Ernst frottage, it was
Blotting us from entire cities,
Or subcontinental light the grain of which
Depressed as much as it clarified

Your form against the grass, a
Picture plane.
The couples retreat
Into a third vantage, seen
From the predella, SANATH
Bathes in 58 hectares of
Interpersonal paradise:
The Yala, Udawalawe, HERE convey
Imaginative furtherance
I hope your stay has pleased
As much as it made vivid

Meanwhile, our exes dissemble
The unwished possibility of morbid
Inference that two are
IN FACT  flirting,
Tasty and persistent stratagems, tried
The ripeness stage of jackfruit:
It is young enough to surrender,
In one move, its vision of itself
Or autodecathect

In effect, this is a personality test
 we forget  that
In the line «though to itself it only live and die»
Is contained the overt artifice,
A prose both secret and secretable,
A diagram of every unknown heaven,
And we are 27.

And we are in Sri Lanka.
Si je lis avec plaisir cette phrase,
A fugitive rime, to the effect that love is hell
a well-trod flirtation deficient in actuality                       
will knell
Love is best.





[Christian Coppa and William Hall are both PhD candidates at Cambridge. They met in or about coffee shops.]

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