'This Concrete Wins Awards, Annually' by Thomas Clancy

I read walls

Though I have been blind

Eyes full of this century’s diseased semen.

Under crass unmedicinal plaster

I spy Olivier’s tongue

And Wesker’s scribbling

Through a haze of removed asbestos

One spots dangerous constellations

Relevant only in that they bear knives to your lungs

Volume upon volume do not speak volumes

In monochrome comparison

To a crumbling wall

Or tea stained paper

Or dried purple flowers

Tipped from black plastic

Onto dry Indian floors.

I do not feel much anymore.

Anything?

For newness is synonymous with optical sterility

I’m fine with brown

Or grey or dust

Yet you insist on pink plastic

When I’m fine with oak

L’histoire habite en les briques et le mortier

Synthesis filled with anything

Is still

Quite

Empty.

Thomas Clancy is primarily a playwright and lives in London, where he converses, works and drinks with other playwrights. He has been described by some as one of the great young talents of British theatre.