It needs to be cinematic for this to stick, for the here to arise, draw breath – take grips. Through eyes, faulty graphers in low definition, so little is; exists: meagre outlines and reflections – smoke signals puffed by a slow cog machine for the unfiled records of broken memory.
The harshness of used to. Drowning in some sea-filled region, one lost Atlantis a minute: perhaps in bile, wasted saliva – blood!, perhaps your tear, my dear, perhaps… I don’t know yet, I don’t know where, I haven’t yet mapped you
(it takes some time these things).
I wish I were Lorca, who wished we wished we could be clouds, I do, and other things remote. Tell me you don’t tire of being solid, bodyful, of being young, then old, of being even you.
I shall stop asking why for it doesn’t pay to think more than a body ought to, than a brain can process, yes will, and shall count my thoughts and time them – no need to work extra, my dear: we all live on minimum wage, we are all bound by the dark games, all get the sack when the heart fails.
And there is no union to join, no embassy to occupy when your gut takes to rebellion.
I see the nights follow the nights: a day, a day, a day, a day, and write ugly repetitions, the way it drugs you to be sane, and how soothing madness can be, and eat and drink and go to bed,
thinking: it needs to be raw and savage. It needs to sting, it needs to bite.
If only time could miss a train.
You know the clouds are just an example. They might as well be stars, mountains, be any thing (that is: whatever is not me, nor you).
It isn’t like you to complain, but you who work and raise and pay the debts, say you don’t care about the clouds.
Time will put its own spin on it. Never erase: pervert.
Twisting the fat out of the roast, seasoning love with five winters dry and arid as ten decades.
Time will wall up the fissure in your brain, paint over the concrete façade, and then paint and repaint over the paint.
If I summon you in a year you will wear a snake in your hair, your white collar will be bile-stained, and I’ll never have known your name. IX
But I, I can never stop asking why, I can never quit playing poker with the Fates, and look for proofs in the gardens in the houses in the poems on the bright screens the lips the veins, combing every square inch in vain. X It was just signs; you can’t believe everything that flickers in red: I know this date was the same as that date and you and I are the same brand. Yet you’re as early as I am late, and though the signs demultiply, the miracles proliferate but don’t pollinize your bud-eyes. I give you ticks on the blackboard, I cross your face out of the books, and put them back down on the shelf.