Soothe the smears from your waiting eyes, it’s only another sting
seared dream flying swiftly into the catch of hair to be so beloved.
The blazing hum sparked propellors seeking a note for a headlong vista,
one dislodged route in the warm solice of the expanse below. Two
phrases that see over cruel dunes that swam once into open sound
and fear’s estranged troubled lipped cockpit. The irony of this last flight
is the sensation of happiness gifted earlier under a disenchanted moon.
Tap on the dials, they move upwards, you’re entering the purpose of
enemy height. Now, forget this and caress on my shoulders as before.
Desire and drift towards.
Stay close in tightened arms for the ride is wind barebacked, felt
as the whistles that spin anticlockwise into a war that could be
bitter hateful if it wasn’t tender unique. The beginning my love is nearly
distracted in this light expansion now taken before a piano discovered
unguarded in the still literary spaces. Touch the keys and play Bach
without any inkling of the future. With a mind to escape from here,
where you decide to conceal for today. For this is all that matters
in the trill left to echo again after the chords have struck for depth,
cradling death that refuses to tally shadow parts for this simple score.
Contact and fly backwards.
Endearing the marks in the brushes promised to reflect a glimpse of heaven,
they float in the flare of creased eyes, an encasement to sensory freedom
that is being passed unbeknown to the next generation. Within the dark
are dispelled treasures not for the possession but to yield in small beauty
to the lightness of wonder. Paint upon my face your lips’ visage, touch
in the connection that only exists before the next overlapped word. Certain
escape is the premise that is not to be uttered for the asking price is more
than lives that could be counted on clumsy hands. Something so fragile
that an egg would shatter minutes later if held as tight. Please just hold me.
Contact and soar as onwards.
Detachments are signals that show impressions ready to be believed in,
a form with movements subtly bringing vivid life to breath. As curious
as a coping child before the talon’s grasp that will now come to shiver
fearful dreams into the room from above the promise of safety, disgard this
in an afternoon resembling a curling wet smile. Slumber dance the veils
into close garments that lay loosely upon an unmade bed, before ink
paintings in pages are the captives, before they swim along the memories
that perform in darkened eyes incapable to remember bespoken love today.
Your hands upon my fading chest, they encircle no torch to light the sand.
A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about
those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled
upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing-not the
wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming
of oneself and the past.
“My darling. I’m waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark?
Or a week? The fire is gone, and I’m horribly cold. I really should
drag myself outside but then there’d be the sun. I’m afraid I waste
the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die
rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we’ve
entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we’ve hidden in – like this
wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real
countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of
powerful men. I know you’ll come carry me out to the Palace of
Winds. That’s what I’ve wanted: to walk in such a place with you.
With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out
and I’m writing in the darkness.”