Someone holds mistletoe
up, right in the face of

disaster; a childish
attempt to re-unite

the atom with its other half.
The screen lights up like

a Xmas tree: Cocteau
painting a flower, ends up with

his portrait. (Restriction
(pattern) results in description of form.)

One syllable less and
the profile vanishes

mine appearing. Kiss me.
'Is there an aesthetic

defence for the hidden?'
Only if the result is distinctive.

It bears a resemblance —
were it not for the sweat

and blood, the fighters could
be lovers. Hard to distinguish as

they try to distinguish
themselves, extinguish each

other. There's a dampness
about these goodbyes which

anticipate catastrophe. The sand inside our
shirts and shoes, and the sand-

wiches. Tinsel glitters,
Xmassy vowels dotted

around a room full of
smoke a little tattered.