The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person & place
once delicately traced,
like a a sketch by Toulouse-Lautrec;
all colour & movement, sweeping angles
tangled into a lie more real than the truth:
who is that person now?
What do they dream about?
That the past is forever lost
is the only proof we have that it existed*,
but the city,
the city stays standing:
poisonous giant always reneging
on its promise to keep us safe.
Just as memories will disappear
so too will the city
& all those within it & all those yet to come.
Even the light will die in time
& nothing will remain of the elegant lines;
not yours or mine.
Our strange gift is to know this
& then try
to accept it.
* J.M. Coetzee
Your elegance, fluid movements of a dancer,
& your hair
flowing in the wind.
The city lights conspiring to hide
the cold shimmer of starlight from our eyes;
walks together: a flower & it’s thorns,
sharing our thoughts, secrets, fears
each the other’s mirror
using silk to remove any marks that
prevented us from seeing clearly &
the resulting electrostatic charge
binding us together.
All of this
is a gift,
and every poem I give you
is an attempt to make amends
for being only this
I can still taste the memory of those cold
when all I ever wanted
was to stay with the warmth of your body.
Or the Summer evenings when
you would rise, like a feline, from the bed
to describe the most perfect lines,
just by stretching your limbs,
& how the sunlight would slip
from a halo to fingertips
brushing against your skin.
One hundred years of solitude, within one day,
between four walls.
The ever-returning thoughts of failure;
red to ochre
bloodstains all over the wall,
then the one memory that broke your fall
as the pale shimmer
of a phosphorescent ghost…
So many rooms in so many houses;
spaces within which the walls have waited,
as I played various roles
in minor dramas,
some of my own devising,
I often forget the lines & sometimes
those of my own design
are the ones most easily forgotten…
So many days wanting to stay away
from this mess,
of purposeful action
that abandons me
with every movement
around the Sun.
The fragility of everything; entropy
that will not be itself,
capable of knowing this all;
when words emerge to seek
a story worthy of
acknowledging that beneath
something waits to be
either serendipitous or fucked up:
The choice is yours.
The choice is mine,