(Be)Longing

 

4429_592313389090_6715772_n

 

I belong
nowhere.

I don’t belong where
I belong. I am part of
the no man’s land
of
first and last Eurostars,
delayed Ryanair planes
and Eurolines coaches
when ferry drivers
strike.

I lie inside the gaps.

My heart rests on the road
in a dark countryside between Venice and Treviso
where the blackness was so blinding
I had to shut one eye
and the other melted
all over my tee-shirt.

My lungs are in the nets
behind the seats
of the buses
that took me there, to carless-
ness and absences, to
Hollywood décors for mediocre
horror.

And I live in overnight trains,
my biography a journey, a series
of journeys, back and
forth, back and
forth. Back and forthness
ad lib.

Paris-London-Paris-London.

Paris.

London.

I live inside the in-betweens.

I live outside the core.

All the shops to me are
gift shops
selling me souvenirs,
and I will buy Eiffel Towers, and I will buy
Big Bens. I belong to
neither.
/either.

You will see me as a tourist
and I appraise you neutrally.

I speak your language but not quite.
‘Cunt’ to me means nothing, I can put it
in a poem. It doesn’t hurt. I could never
say ‘enc***’.

You will see me as a tourist
for I don’t know your arrondissement
and I need maps.

I belong
to the cockpit of the plane
where I whiled away a whole night
starving on films and live
satellite images
that teased me with
the shapes of Montreal,
city of the before.

I belong at the back of the back of men’s brains,
in the corner, the private cell,
for repression. In the left
hemisphere. I have been squeezed
against neurones, in the cortex of men
I never saw again,
who may have died or run away
with a girl who’s chewing their gum
a few houses away, trying to remodel their brain
with not a feel for art.

And there I lurk,
waiting
to haunt their Alzheimer.

Oh, but.

I must belong to my nation
for look at my ID, and my passport.
I MUST
belong.

My fingers are inside a girl
who it was sweet to know,
and corrosive. The nails are gone.
My fingers are inside that girl
who was pale and fleshly, who
spoke in tongues. She too
has gone. Has gone, missing
and missed.

My wit is at your door
where I left wooden spoons –
or meant to and did not.

I am part of intersections.

My lifeline is a boundary,
that very line –

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry.

One comment on “(Be)Longing

  1. johncoyote says:

    You are a amazing storyteller. The story and poetry come alive. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s