Age-old skin, its lines and creases
making easier the folding necessary after use
only after the air of shallow breathing
maintaining a roundness of wisdom.
The ash in the tray no longer glistening
with signs of fire, though vital organs remember
a joy of elasticity, thoughts yearning, straining
to believe this present distance of exile
is significantly nearer than first meeting,
measuring, perhaps, a little of your reluctant
reflection on, perhaps, me.
Contractually creased for folding into a cubist
receptacle of anything but impressionist
ideas. A prison where files offering nothing
akin to escape tools are assembled in tedious
order. A mere repository for wasteful notions masquerading as imagination and a universe
reduced to 1.9 cubic feet of finite space.
TUG OF AWE
Needing to pull against foolish attraction two realities struggle for supremacy: the first manifest in genuine yearning and distractions felt inside; the second real impossibility embodied in the other’s attractiveness and indifference.
Feeling like an alchemist who is required to transform longing and desire into casual indifference, a would-be wild heartbeat, curtail a smile that would reveal too much, to eradicate signs of her presence inside and break cause and effect dynamics to once again hear only someone rather than her – it is sound that proves the hardest to conquer, to unlove her voice tests resolve to breaking, especially how listening increases admiration that established me as host.
The impulse is to resist loss of self, yet it is necessary to lose hope and, as a consequence, embrace the reality that truly connects two distant points in beautiful, inviolable indifference.
Two words oscillating, mixing and separating as desire wrestles with reason: to hear her by withdrawal of self, the singularity of a subject that once heard became object of desire beyond all reason, at least up to a point of impossible denial that translate hear into her and back again and the ‘a’ for apple was eaten in sinful self-indulgence.
Though I’ve been punished since, the cosmos has its diffuse revenge in teaching me the value of hear, never here, always only there, temporarily obscured by wanting something
never holistically existing.
POETRY WITH NONET
Woke up this morning looked round for train
think I got those commuter blues
waiting, busy, where and here
work, when will I get there
no talk, no knowing
more hours owing
schedule for now
progress is later
than expected due to
cuts in service provision
to drive private wealth creation
but what of the public in all this?
Standing still unannounced, unmoved
how long must we wait for progress?
economic sentence starts
explaining a real world
that changes the same
no-one asks how
why less still
on my heart
I look up at beauty
marvel at your sweet disdain
and love the way you pass through me
invulnerable to distraction.
Lines written in recollection of being stunned one glorious summer evening by her dressing up to the nines
what love did
here in my heart
inverting my reason
overturning despair’s truth
laying my soul bare to nonsense
crushing my bones with gorgeous contempt