From Ultramarine ………..a diary of  my self .

 

Honey in my pocket

children’s sweets

heaviness of sleep

held in my chest

held in the earth

like bulbs for spring planting.

 

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I’ve followed you both, you father, you mother, through chambers and corridors down dead end alleys to poly-fill the cracks where the rain seeps creating fungus that surreptitiously gnaws at my bones. Now we’re in a land we never visited, we hold conversations about nothing, we continue.  My tree is bare against the grey skyline but in my mind I can see the silver rustle of absent leaves, here the year is on it’s head shoppers maraud the stores like Viking reapers: I remember the aftermath; Christmas wrappers, broken baubles, driftwood bleached by the salt of so many seas.

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The city hums with golden slipper-ed girls, toes red, hair flicked neatly across one shoulder.  She moves between them languidly, no glance to left or right searching the ground for clues, underwater signs as the rain pours down.

 

Liquid love

alms for the lonely.

 

High on Scottish hill you wander holding a tattered map of all that’s gone before, place names snap beneath your fingers you catch the whisper of her name from frozen rivers gritted pathways, reminds you always and forever of before and you wonder stuck  in tousled heather how to heal the welts, seal with charms pronounce some ancient spell.

 

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“Between two waves of the sea

Quick now, here, now, always—–“

 

She remembers walking straight across the room, politely shaking hands, beyond the theater lights she feels his eyes, he said his first desire was to stroke her hair, to kiss and keep her safe from harm. She fought him like the bear, tearing his tiger toughness to save her small brown cubs; she was safe until she lay beside him kissed the tiredness from his eyes. Then too late the deed was done.

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The dawn comes with staccato crackle; I didn’t know there were so many birds, condensation on my window, slipped to December frivolities. Children pace the darkened streets, singing carols begging treats and the old man at the corner of the street has lit his hideous sculptured Christmas tree. I’m thinking of orange blossom white beaches anything but this overindulgent opulence. I’m hung with flu full throttle, totter backwards through the years, remember purple velvet trousers, the odd teddy bear, but then blackness, nothing; and now it’s safer that way let all be left for dead.  We write each other electronic love letters, I am pursued from every corner of this city by past and future desires, listen to my life passing by like  a favourite radio show.

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“Whoever thought the old man

would have so much blood in him”

 

You too have sprayed our blood across these years, it’s left us changed.

 

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Honey on my lips

kisses we unwrap

like children.

This is all there is

lights, kisses, amnesia

better that way

unraveling into tomorrow.