Parallax

From viscous to liquid; a silent

eruption behind the iris;

beyond language,

not 

knowing how

or when or from where.

Do you remember those mornings,

the breathing trees observing a

moon fading & sun bleeding 

across the sky,

        your arm

linked with mine?

 

How time dilated &

the gaze was so benign?

 

Now,

two seasons

later & nostalgia sharpens that strange

blade: a weapon that leaves no trace

except for a particular posture;

glazed

eyes seeing only spectral projections,

the way cats seems to see

into some hidden distance.

 

From liquid to viscous;

the cat is not vicious, the blade

not dangerous;

 

our parallax view has changed &

separated. 

    

        One for

me & another for you.

Tell a truth, or tell a lie

“I get hammered, forget you exist / there’s no way I’m forgetting this”*

That city turning pink
in the sun’s slow descent;
the night air still vibrant
yet gentle now
                      as if
in its old age the day
had finally found a way to be kind
& calm without losing all passion for
the fire
          of summer;

your hair, shed like feathers discovered in

my bed,
a mess of tresses untangled
& tangled again:

now all only a memory

of a scent & the slope of your shoulders
at 5 a.m in the morning;

photographs of long lost days

when we still adored each other,
before the decay became
                                       poison:

the silence, the speech, the years of peace

& warmth
& war
& lies
& tired eyes
& not fucking any more

& bored

            so bored
of the performance;
                                another
dancing monkey
out of sync with the organ grinder;
a comedy without laughter,
a tragedy without despair,
only anger.
All this & more now lives below
a gravestone with no
inscription,
as our dream begins to decay
beneath the surface,

where the remains may let new life flourish.

* Scott Huchison

Artemis and the Moon*

No more the warmth of your smile

waiting for me

behind

the door or

between the sheets; sharing body heat;

blood pulsing, hearts, random hearts beating

for each other in a cruel, cruel world**. 

 

No more silences,

either callous or beautiful.

No more Blue-john stones & those future dreams

we

always secretly knew would never come

true.

 

No one knows who put the ice-pick through

the skull of Brontsein

 

& only we 

know how it ended…

 

let us keep our secret, please, leave me

to my dreams

 

while you escape your fate

& be gifted that which you always

wanted

 

& History can be re-written…

 

 

 

*Artemis and the Moon

** Randon Hearts -Laura-Jane Grace

A painting or a stain

Viscous to liquid, now dissipating

                                                         into nothing;

colours fading from the imposing painting

of the future now no longer

still in progress.

 

No more changes, no new creations

only the repetition of all that

always leaves you back where you began, yet

if the colours begin to brighten again

as always they have

                                 eventually;

when the flames flare & the embers turn

to a fire fierce & dangerous,

 

perhaps

the painting will be beautiful again;

 

                            perhaps

you will change…

In the sunlight

& then when
I awoke
the morning light made me choke as
I remembered
how the gentle susurration blended
with the birdsong & the light began to
curve like the branches above us
to touch,
briefly,
skin within which poison blends with pollen
& flowers blossom before I pluck them
to place in your hair where
they will wither & die.

The past still lingers in the present,
& refuses to leave with the grace
of living things.

This is what regret means:
never to forget someone
or something;
knowing of all the lives that could have been;

to touch,
briefly,
your skin

for the last time.