For S.
Quand le monde reprend possession de toi
ce soir on dormira seul,
mais je sens qu’on partage le même esprit,
parce que la fraîcheur de la nuit
devient la chaleur de ma vie,
quand je trouve une plume dorée tombée
de tes ailes dans mon lit
où tu t’est couché
hier soir.
Thought & image blend with emotion,
creating a weird creature
of our own creation,
& then
we attempt to control this creature
with language, but the wild horses
of desire,
of impulse & sensation,
cannot be tamed by satiation
or speech.
We must accept the existence
of an empty space,
the place
where we exist;
the solitude
that will always be with us,
& that can not be filled
by consumption;
by that
which consoles & poisons
in equal measure.
Nothing can save us
unless we shred instinct
& learn to forgive,
& to accept,
that sometimes we are scared
& sometimes lonely;
sometimes hurt &
sometimes just horny;
that sometimes
we are nothing more
than another animal,
born of a capricious mother
& a vast,
incomprehensible,
indifferent father,
& that all we really seek
is comfort
& some answers
to our never-ending questions,
& that these motivations
are in conflict with each other.
But acceptance is not giving up:
acceptance is defiance.
“We have too much to gain from the gods, and this is why they fail to love us…” – John Burnside
We once found a word we've now forgotten,
explaining a concept that drifted away
like vapour
& left us,
in the same way
that everything
eventually must
decay.
We were dreaming
about perfect expressions of language,
about harmony between anguish
& affirmation;
wishing
for what can never be achieved:
a gift from the gods that may or may not
exist;
a gift
of significance & meaning.
A meaning made
like a statue of clay
we leave out in the rain:
a gesture of defiance
we know in advance
will not last,
& yet
doing it anyway.
Whether any god exists is
irrelevant:
gods
don't listen,
because they can't:
perfect language does not exist.
Both of us a shifting infinity
of confusion in constant collusion,
fusing together
the precise moment
we're severed;
there's a small space between your face
& mine when we kiss…
& when we speak
invisible thoughts distort
& twist our words, so
that we'll never completely know
the other
& love
will never help us escape
from the confines of our minds:
we will always be
ultimately
alone.
But
despite it all,
despite
the sleepless nights
born of petty fights &
the blood-shot eyes too tired
to cry any more;
regardless of every moment
we feel slipping away,
hopelessly lost…
even though we know
it can be so fucking ugly sometimes,
nothing can change the fact
that there's such incredible purity
to the beauty
of this:
today I woke earlier than usual,
with nowhere to be &
nothing to do
but lay down next to you,
deep in animal heat,
listening
to the persistent rhythm
of our synchronised breathing…
Before the shimmer of colour dissolves into images
& the senses synchronise,
before objects gain permanence
& noise becomes language,
as instinct urges
the first scream of protest,
the craving begins:
to touch & to be touched.
A dream proceeds through the senses,
through sadness, through elation,
through bitter-sweet isolation,
& the aleatory revelation
when first we notice the symmetry
between our veins & those
of the leaves:
the dream
that we can reach out to touch
not just the surface but
the ineffable essence.
Melancholia is our mourning for,
& fucking our delirious affirmation of,
this dream;
speech
is our abstract acceptance
that the dream is impossible,
& your smile is the only reason
I sometimes still believe it isn’t,
because
there are more ways than one
to touch & to be touched…
Words for Ghosts 