Voices also told me to write of the 
colour purple. In Steiner homes for autists, 
rational but socially inept, the corners 
of the rooms are round and purple 
because it's less threatening than the geometry 
of rightangled corners. My room 
turned out a little like that when,
as my dying father lay in the attic,
my screen bloomed a numinous purple
light daubing the walls until the 
bedroom, an anagram of boredom,
seemed like a featherlight love poem shop.
A little girl's lava lamp of a room:
sometimes the seeping foxglove aura
vacillated back and forth between 
purple and its normal screen light,
refusing to settle for any long period of time.
My bro said I'd caught some virus;
the computer programmer down the pub
just said dying, and he was right,
for by the time Blue passed away,
Blue being the art-smuggling codename
dad used in his shady occupation,
the computer broke down. R.I.P. data-tree, 
and farewell luminous dark of half Denmark!
Now all I can think to say on purple
is this: I would put it in my mouth.
And I would chew on it like a cow
grazes on grass, mulchy and blind.
And I would ingurgitate it fully
not spit it out like a child his dummy.
I would taste it like her name. It's 
the colour of mystery and sex and 
saudade and longing and shame. And 
it's the colour we associate with depth.
When I first looked at the colours of the vowels
I noticed the presence of its absence,
as if you'd expect it there because
it's the colour of deep things. 







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