Superimposed against the sky

This is a long one and part of something much longer...

Image by 【中文ID】愚木混株 【ins-ID】cdd20 from Pixabay

...and then it was summer and writing in the dark: written in the dark, fish popping, Zen, naked, doing crazy antics, bats reminding me of dragonflies, superimposed against the sky; light touch of rain; Zen, still doing her exercises on the wet grass; my bum, wet on the bench; take a swig of wine; wind blowing leaves, trees; another fish pops, bat flaps, hidden ducks chuck, chuck, chuck; Zen says she has to get over her fear, and, it’s all right; I wonder if she’s cold; last day of July, could be anywhere; cars passing on the road between cities; a body walks down the hill–path, then right on into the woods; Zen comes around puffing and huffing, talks about going for a swim; do we; she claps her hands; do it! Do it! but I'm too busy doing anything; I like to be free she says and then makes her way down the bank to the lake; sitting, she splashes her feet, then in she goes, breast stroke; swims clear across to the other side; midnight comes and I lose sight of her in the dark, then catch sight of her head going through a pool of light; I hope I don’t get wet when she comes back; she’s swimming back now; I can hear her voice from the other end of the lake; the drizzle smudges the ink as I see her wake coming closer and closer; she wades out; alcoholic swimming, I was told, was a no-no; Zen splashes about, back stroke, crawl; bats flit, woo; I could be anywhere, but I'm here getting wet watching Zen swim; it’s not that important; glad she’s enjoying it; Zen seems to be choking so I watch close but it's ok; later, Zen howls at the moon, that I'm sure is up there somewhere through the cloud; I give her a hug, feel glad there’s no electric neon around here; we throw our empty wine bottles in the lake as we leave; a big fish shudders out of the water towards the light; but as I look back I see only ripples in the sands of time; in these moments that shift the sands of time like the sea, it all comes and goes; waves washing it all away; life, making footprints; I've walked on many beaches, seen many sunsets, and a few sunrises; fool-moons have flit across star studded skies; a time or two I've been with friends and watched time’s dance unravel for us a beautiful picture; and then have to walk on alone; all partings are sad; lovers come and go like the sea ebbing and flowing; it all comes and goes; in my heart, in its deepest room I feel I am here; but am sad at every parting; sometimes the road is too long; just one more step of an old promise; come my love, let’s spend the night wrapped in each other’s arms for I feel the tide is turning and we don’t have much time; tomorrow our destiny will take us, each on our own path; let’s make this night last forever far from that sea of loneliness; in a sea of loneliness, grasping at straws I came across one who gave me shelter for a while; in the magic room we built you placed our love on a shelf, emptied of its contents; it’s still there I'm sure, gathering dust; but the fifth message was yes; how high is the moon on your battered suitcase in another hall of your life; you stand dilapidated hissing at the moon with your Indian rocks filling your pockets; the fifth message was yes, but it came too late; smiling thought; today I thought of you and smiled and thought of you thinking of me and smiling too on another mountain; I never really knew you were the one until I lost you; and now I must climb this mountain to get back to you, not knowing if you will be there waiting for me when I get to the top; so I climb on alone battling through the darkness, the freezing winds, searching out every handhold, slipping back, almost giving up; but my heart won’t give up on you; I will leave a message every day on the top that the distance of a thirst is too far; I am a shipwrecked lover set adrift on an island; I wrap myself up in moon and star; over in the distance is the thunder storm; but in here is the thirst and the travels of a Marco Polo; there she is again, seen for a few short moments in her soup called life; this is the observer and she is the observed, one reaching from recluse, the other a sleeping beauty, always at the edge of a filled space, only to be expected; and when I look up I always imagine her to be bending over me, trying to get in, but she never does; the space is full wanting her; this is an island and there is the crowd around the edges, so remote, untouchable, a sea of one’s drifting, congregating like magnets to safety, all so small, all needing a security even in their drowning; there is Marco Polo wearing a hat calling himself an Italian living with his strange dirge, looking like a surreal fish in murky water drifting through the crowd like a charismatic ghoul, never drinks or smokes except at tables you’ve never seen, tables of excess, remote from bad luck; looking intelligent behind a face of façade, which if looked at for very long shows the real emotion like what is seen in a mirror, but it’s alright, cats do it too, real when they hunt; and there’s always a point isn’t there, to be argued over, made up of brief moments of ecstasy, so called, over too soon, then on to the next one, but every next one is less than the last, until in the end you join the ocean, it washes you, then you become it; you become it, that vast ocean to be sailed over, finally knowing the feeling that soundless feeling of being and then howl at the moon; the travellers and the jester were all walking along free and all that kind of stuff; there were trees there and the Steppenwolf too sailed within the wind of many smiling faces came that way; some came to play; the road was long; let me tell you about the clouds, they were all up there pictured n all and the sun was almost done made a fine colour; allegories were abounding in all the clichés that walked or zoomed through it; the jester made fun of it but was a part of it; the travellers travelled within it, and the Steppenwolf was getting ready to howl at the moon with cosmic intelligence; a man stood silent and still in the crowd, he couldn’t help it, his head was on all down up and awhirl in the night; beautiful; “yeah,” he said, “I guess you are;” let’s kiss; “leave me alone now;” see my key, it lies all alone there in the still place of before; ”now I have to run, run and run; don’t speak to me I'm boiling; ” fish life, and it’s not all gossip I don’t care what you say, anyway, my baby swears by it; oh god! look at him over there all telling me, and giggles, got to run now, maybe I'll be back tomorrow if I can get through the thunder in my soul, yeah, think I'm smiling out of the chill, but if I don’t her sister will; hello, hello, who is this; this is a public call box; got the wrong number; you’re all crazy; you’re all crying, telephoning counting numbers, trying to get through shouting, shouting, not listening, so stupid really thinking it’s real whatever the problem giving it to me feel like breaking it all; nobody high around here; bucket in my brain, slammed door; alone, break it all down; take another call, kick down the door; crazy; yeah; giving it all to me, don’t want it; try to breathe in splendour it’s all so crazy, all so crazy being behind closed doors; no, I'm not the same person anymore, I'm so cold now, so different to what I used to be; my life is not the land of love but a huge longing; I can’t help it, there isn’t any love in this place, no love to be found; yeah, this door leads nowhere; a wind blows cold over everything and my toothbrush is frozen between the sex and the fate; now I'm off at the shoulder another denial, wishing someone would phone, wishing someone would come round, and wishing for so many things, needing for a kind voice; I know how hard it is, no one to phone, no one to talk to; how do you come back to a better life from this; this night burns; first thing first; learn how to climb down before I climb up because if I climb up I may not be able to come back down again so I write you a poem as I crash upon your shore; you are nowhere to be found; I look for you everywhere, even as I cry; your season was beside me and I think of your face illuminated by the moon as I planted a kiss upon your lips so sweet; now I hear a whisper in the middle of my room, a sigh forlorn; my bed I am afraid of getting into without you; and then I stepped on an echo looking at the sky, then I was ready so took a big sigh; white river rapid, cloud drifty blue, gulls in the meadow, lazy cow too; used to be a dandelion now I'm a kangaroo, this discovery reaching over the clouds blue; clap-clap from one fire to another; my friend, I have been remiss of you; is this why I am so lost; did you pluck me from one fire to a more desperate one so that I would remember you; my heart yearns for the last fire, yet this one burns now; What's this, a letter from Zen: I do not hate you nor think bad of your face, the one you showed me so cruel; I love you, you know, but all the argument only makes it harder to get us close again past your broken heart; if only we could unmake it and start again, but it is too sore this wound between us to carry that touches us with a wrath this war of loneliness; I see your eyes all desire, your earthly cry; now I walk through these passageways full of icons of steel and I must say this is not good what has been chosen, this is not my way; I miss you and I need you, can’t you find me; let’s not listen to the old record, we need to dance, but without you there is no dancing, except sometimes under the moon, then I can’t help it; I wish you were with me; come find me; I wait for you; your dearest Zen; holy wine she sang, oh holy wine she sang; took some holy wine once, long, long time ago; took me thru a doorway that blew my mind away; but it came back, like an angry dog; I will spray my body tonight with mosquito spray; I will survive the dark night; it will go away, like everything goes away; had me a friend once, shared a lot of things; he went away, long, long time ago; seems like, I lived once, a long, long time ago; where did it all go to; a visitor’s guide to Paris or a bucket full of tea as the contemporary scorpion of Paris exceeds by a big hand all that is known while munching potatoes and drawing the love that sweeps over him at dawn the public beauty, and not a hair out of place, while the ambitious endeavours of a suspicious nature like that scorpion in the sun are forever undone; now, is that a huge bucket of stew I see coming my way and are the angels not responding and is Zoom out to tea; the hammers of night fall on the indifferent alike and is that the whispers whispering of exceptional in the shower scene of impressionistic euphemism; lemonade Linda the bohemian soul, spider thin but not boat-rope tangle was in the interlace lattice, that abundance shoe, sending messages to the third eye of it all as the black bean struck back in the wet rain and said it is going to happen no matter what; it is bigger than all the poisons, all the wares of negativity; and Luscious Limbo, Dirty Geri and Marigold Surprise swore a blue murder this was so; Jolly was singing to the birds with Zoom Smith that sometimes healing doesn’t come from words and who do you know that thinks you are you; what wings do you give yourself, what wings do you deny; what winds do you ride; but gangster dance and the toothbrush fairy in the one hundred floral words excused themselves past the iron bauble with eleven minutes full of babies around then to go a weeping be to dust; OMG; while the difference between a false pretence and a real one is what you feel an electric mile an hour: a false pretence will creep over all a slimy like a worm; while a real one will hit you in the teeth and kick you up the dysphemism; so be careful who you go to bed with; but if breakfast in the morning is a tea to remember, a tea they say we need to be drunk, where the whirl is a pie with a sandwich in it, and the yardarm is a wine bottle time for beer, then let love move the alien to put the dreams of excellence this then hey; and don’t let a bud-dance worth of living expenses in the interval tell you otherwise in the sneeze elbow where all is well, all is blue, and the fence is pure in the dog-creep-dust, slide a ruin into the rainbow’s double portal; the sleeper awakes to find fly in the old airplane again; not enough said the spider, the gruel is too flat to fly in the dustbin release so could not flay the pawns in their rush to the sea so the fireworks ended on a note as they began: how-now they sang in the pretty-pretty so nerve deep in the wonder bust that long tail to the sky; shridy-shridy all weep n cry; bang-bang now the smoke comes under the starless sky: realty of the night; if you listen to it all you can hear it as war sound, that succubus to the minions, pollution on a grand scale, the war works in waiting; but the dark sea of depression is a lifetime’s song, sung by the idiot winds of fate to come scratching the soul to make more; and there is no way it was so amongst the born days gone that turned a change to fear that is in bed with the news, to be so tired in the dance of lack; no, not a thousand mountains deep to thrive, but just a song in the rain-dance to keep the night pure, so fine a sorrow deep to be, let the veins stand out, let the skin fissures wrinkle the end is too soon, such a buzz word, to write the dying as the night is a cloud to be made sure as boats of time sail fast past with the day-glow; ah, the Moses code of the full secret, that Neptune of desire, that dance in the wind; but maybe it’s just grunge in the works; you can’t bust out of your age, this moment alone counts; and don’t forget to wear your changeable in the organised chaos; the count is a number of custard where I don’t live in that longing full of whispers a sin, a see me curse to be this din, a sneeze elbow to cure a nothing full of numbers but must run an invitation come so please be sure in the seeing of it and can the sand be a stardust of bubbly; oh the leaky nose, the daylight tune, the entertainment machine; don’t play the empty tune again all the wood is warping n sticking; let it be; but if you’re human don’t growl where the darkness howls; they say so much it has to make sense in the river before you die, god forbid, the whole-fish expedition date then take twelve years of Sundays to make peace with yourself, with a wife, two kids and a mortgage; mashed potato sandwich; and if a bomb a day keeps the doctor away what would a ballistic multitude do; and if evidence is needed of a life lived indeterminately then live it to the doom; so the electric sunshine machine and the burble agents of dust were sweeping through Tuesday again as they do and making a lot of noise like the old days with the throw-off agents of blow who holidayed in the snow; but the café was closed so they all went home; am I a water revival baby in the tar space; say if not so or move me backwards to the explanation service where the dust of the puritanical vision gets to be lost; that’s when the pages become a little slow for a while, and zoom was such a face, a massive I; but this is not an IQ test but rather an EQ journey; and so what if it is chicken marinade for the soup, haven’t we all suffered enough; well then, let’s go beach-surf-sanding in the jaga-noo-dee: “blue-Dee-blue,” said the halloo with a jaga-noo-dee who was little enough a minute to whistle and hardly five bob in the wishing well to spend on coffee and never mind that now my head hurts; “downer;” said the elastic classicist holding a newly printed titbit under his tongue and thinking nothing whatsoever, not even a pun; throw a shoe at a dog and run; “allow,” said the halloo and went back to his bedroom and closed the door and pulled the curtains and got under the covers and just lay there to fall asleep to hope the jaga-noo-dee would go away; “oh lip it and plant a legume,” said the classicist still holding the titbit after the halloo who was gone for now, see you later, have a nice day but don’t hold your breath for too long or you’ll go red in the face; and now chakra level number three; and tonight there is intense, nothing held back, it’s the big push coming from the sun; waves of radiation outpouring, such intense energy streams bombarding us all; and the moon too is waiting in the wings to come full again; what all this means for us all is over the top deep as a beep within your energy system; anyway I don’t know how much longer I can hold out it is getting so strong, the waves are blasting me but I will keep going for as long as I can here on planet earth; it’s going be rough folks so hold on tight to something but don’t hold on too tight to anything below your 5th chakra level or you are going lose it big time; if you can then help out your buddies below you who are not going to make it without you; it’s the shift coming now; here it comes; look out below; sending love and light; eek, it's the ghost dance; this is where the lines run out and the ghost dance begins: a fine mist has fallen in the night; sitting here smoking a cigarette, getting late; cold is here and a slight wind is blowing the shadows of some wild grasses; it is cold; snow soon; deeply I fall into her aftermath as black crows call outside and the night is bright with the sound of moonlight; burning beside me the block-wood fire; her bike leans on the empty wall; her dog has gone too; light streams through windows in the roof on this amorphous emptiness by her gone away to the place that called her, leaving me speechless and hanging on the receding tide; darkness creeps down invading, burning beside the fire, too filled alone and surreally conscious of this, while sensitivity breaks the dust putting out the turn in another day of wonders; so climb back in the window, uncork another vine, smash the glass in my mind in this place full of; crocodile hands reach for this where the blue dream spiders miss the eagle flying high screaming from afar, wondering while wandering whose hand does take the past; shifting, sliding into the mist; all is raining cries the chaos, but no one will take the shadow; well the witch grows a rose and light snakes through the wall as the scissors cuts the dream to dust; then something else is real in the faint breeze that blows through this as droplet threads shimmer in the early breeze as ghostly houses sleepy haunt the mist, their chimneys reaching to the sky, not yet light on the black tar road, deserted; somewhere a dog barks from the bottom of a deep dark well, its sound echoing memories of other times like a faint something on the edge of forever stirring something; leaves; a few, still left on the trees; a winter rose in bloom under the starry, starry sky while this beautiful heart goes from room to room seeing all by the moon of the long, long night quite out of sight to let love come back; perhaps it could grow from the frozen ground slippery and hard; still children play, except the stranger shunned with suspicion, cut off from giving; must be the time of year, mysterious and cold; nothing left but a winter rose, a face lost in a hard place, until the laughing poem came along: I bought some poems the other day, I wanted to laugh so I bought the funny ones but god, I should have got the other ones, because underneath the humour was a sorrow; so I went back to the book store and I said “hey! I bought these here funny poems but they just made me feel sad, what do you suggest;” well the store owner he looked at me with an eye full of tea and said: “weren’t they funny then;” “sure they were funny but I didn’t laugh, I just got depressed;” I replied; “well what do you expect me to do;” he said; “maybe I should try the other ones,” I said; “the serious ones;” he said “yes,” I said; clutching the book I went home to bed; turning the first page I saw a man on the floor clutching his sides laughing fit to bust; that was days ago; I'm still trying to turn the page, because since then I've not stopped laughing, I feel so good, all my worries gone away; oh it’s such a scream; my passion logical washing machine; all we women addicted; love it, it’s a must; a dream, oh yeah what a relief, no more hands getting kaput; now my man’s clean because of the washing machine, such a scream; no more anger, and so much time to spare for all the things we bare, all there beside the washing machine; a zum, zum, zum, zum, zum, zum, zum, a zum zum, zum, zum, zum, zum, zum; even the baby’s mesmerised in its whirling hum; I've played its tune throughout the day, even into the night I've made it right; it’s all so bright, what a sight, such a scream the ecological dream; left here wondering why it’s all such a scene beside the bloody washing machine; and now it is time to let go; if you love let go; if you can see the pain just let go; don’t waste any more time; stop from hanging on; don’t die on the door step every time saying: until the next time; stop this soon; let it go; know how to feel: imagine it better; say it’s all ok now; call it freedom, know living, but not in the shadows between the love and the darkness shore; the parting may be so bad but just let go; won’t ruin all; can let go, if it’s over; lost it; can’t make it with leaden wings to be quite sane knowing watching blue line time bottled hunger hanging to be full-filled fad send ash seen whisper remarkable desert sowed saw dragon fired face stream question capturing one’s running away forayed for mown full strode sky clear stiff flung mind moved place stilled shadowy resting tawny well deep dropped quite quiet sung heroes chartreuse light diary night reflects sandaled hearing sky joke fusion expectation rampage collecting oblique sun shining rain blue bobbing whole hole for gotten in captured booming boomed room fun marooned parading too to soon seeing sea relief knows who now was quite sane knowing and now she is gone, an excruciation pain; learning how to fly again; words discovering positivity learning how to fly; beauty is wanted crazy as a howl; really is felt like booming in the stillness with wu-wu barking any colour but still life, any colour by me; la boheme is green but I want blue, and auburn and the colour of innocence, of life on fire throwing clothes at the sky doing what mother knew best far from father throwing stars at the fire, yet his clothes are never beer stained after the wash; mother washes his love with her flesh that flesh he bought at the altar of civilisation, far from the barbaric love of sweetness the savages knew before the white man’s slave; oh mysterious rose where have you gone to; now; not now, one day I will when I am young again and all light has become one and all memories fade into dust and the aching joints are no long felt, when the heat has finally gone from my desire, when the last but one lover has dropped by the wayside, when there’s nothing left to steal by my soul, when my greatest ambition is realized and the wrinkles ease from my brow, when thoughts no longer be, when I cannot anymore, that’s when I will, but not now in the night’s ambience; in this cryptic night’s ambience caressing in waves an embodiment of unopposed visions as if through a mist, not clear in being, the semantics of these things, the why, the where from, draining the glass; as the light dances with the shadow, concepts all, driven by the weary circle along the seeming long road; assumed truth confused with arrogance, consumed assumptions, conferred ideals; annoying in the end; but, so what, you’ve walked on the moon, so you’ve been around; you can talk to me from somewhere else, never see my face; your smile’s made by the manufacturing co; ltd; your soul is made somewhere in between; so you sleep with the dream soon to be exchanged, and you made the biggest building, the fastest car, the walking robot; learnt how to sell love, and true to nothing because nothing’s all you’ve got; you made the longest wall; you did it all, but you can’t take off from where you are, stuck unmoving and can’t go back to change it; so you’re turning out the light; you don’t care; so you’re loose; so you walked on the earth, so in the end all you could say is: you don’t care on this page without lines; life on the table; existence doesn’t care if a folder of poetry can’t get far with tainted words that could be horrible or that could be nice; it’s up to you, maybe you’ll get far, perhaps in a big room full of echoes; big room swaying gently, curtains full of large breezes, dreaming through the window morning’s ephemeral inspiration through the superstition of once being young gathering firewood on the beach, lighting the firefly’s talk with old sandwiches and poses, used railway tickets, worn out vest, images of naked existence and dried flowers and forgotten ownership belonging to the sky, far from the memories peacefully floating, waiting to meet their owners; everything cast away, even security; walking by the river trying to get back to something as the years fly, all shadows; wish it would lightening; she thought I wanted her for her body, she was wrong, I wanted her for mine; she talked about playing around, I never learnt how; then she walked away so I looked at the sky remembered a million years ago when the stars were bright and I could walk forever without looking back; I wish for rain to make me feel better; I wish for thunder to drown out her voice; I wish for lightning to take away her eyes; I wish it would lightening; but here I am a rainstorm child born in a dark September's rainstorm; set adrift, things are so good, things abysmal; didn’t care, too busy with problems like: another breath, would it, should it keep the breast moving to breast suckling moment from forever moment in moments surviving darkness more light darkness to know many heart to heart beats no time, but forever, almost one day to have lived in a magical dream of joining; but doesn’t matter anymore; with hands sparkling; must be stars; don’t know what time it is; hate or love; at least give me a cryptic clue; don’t know what; you mean you are love; do I really know this; carry on somehow, far from being restless under the wooden sky; who would cry this in the moonless night; who would sigh; the one somewhere else or the one here now; I will weigh you with my laughter or cut you with my scorn; I will sink you beneath my breast or raise you to the moon; I will bring your dreams to fruition or turn you inside out; I will be the one you’ve looked for or turn you away once again; you will be my loving anchor or fill me with dread; you will be the home to come home to or just another book read; in the end it is only how you lived; and remember there is nothing to remember; if you know that much then you are already there; but if not then you will just have to keep on searching until you find it; PS: they say it is inside, but I say it is in your greatest pain, your greatest joy, deeper than you can ever go alone until there is only that left; but never mind that now, it is border time; on the border where we left our knives one day to be taken by the wind and turned into the songs we later sang on that long road, I said I will not rub sawdust in any wound; nor un-know what is good for me; neither will I flee in the face of death, that which I cannot understand, even if I stand upon my longest night, such darkness to whither my heart, and though all the night be upon me, I shall not give in; unless it is to a bottomless desire; she revolted this sibyl, mysteriously prophetic with her oracles and her silhouette against the darkening sky, tangential with the moonbeams and my wandering hand; desist she uttered, you valentine vagabond with your valueless words, inebriated heart and indigent soul, your Minoan desire is not for me, I will not be drawn into your oblivion of obscene fiery possessiveness; I was on fire with her scent writhing on the floor; I fixated on a plant, watched tendrils of lust; she took pity on me then, became the earth mother and pulled me to her breast; I was lost; nothing mattered anymore; “oh, do that again,” she cried then drank a bottle of wine and decided the night was pleasure, didn’t have a problem getting to heaven; then went to morocco crying, “do that again;” lost in the rain of what came again, the memory, oh, do that again; now a summer has passed and she sits in a garden from anywhere he could do that again; she whispers, “he could do that again;” in a lost piece of transience; of the night to come home to penetrating in experience in a Kafkaesque dress even unto the morning’s first light; worth being a hero for; I can see your answers driving me blind talking off my clothes strangling me with the body’s wit, so I take off my clothes; you take the rest of me on the chair leaving my experience with something soft, snake like, penetrating you; swim I say swim; swim I say, swim; “I would if I could but I can’t so I won’t,” said my friend while she was drowning and me all of a fuss not being able to either; reaching out but not able to grasp her hands; so I jumped in and saved her and myself too, and always a mystery from then on it remained between us: how I could do such a thing; but I would rather have gone to hell than let the vision of her drowning body disappearing again beneath the waves plague my memory for ever more; my heart would not let me still to look on but plunged me forth into the arms of death; it was not to be, her hold on us that day, great, but greatly more, life strove to bring us back; and accepting pats on the back from my friend I succumbed to her gratitude though knowing it was not I that should take the credit but the unseen guardian of children in places they shouldn’t be; and then I had bad trip again; I gaze through my window and dream a dream that I take a trip upon a ship and sail away so far, to a distant land of steel and sand where all things made are strange; where demon kings shadowed by dark wings rule with an iron hand, and black caped wizards with terminal lizards plot ruin under the stars; as I drift over the land looking for somewhere to stand appalled by all that I see, for green has turned brown and blue is made grey and all lovely has vanished away; from this hellish inferno, overshadowing tall steeples tower over the peoples regularly calling them to pray the toll of their master’s grand plan; so I fly on wings to get away from these bad things but the bell sounds again to bring me back, caught in this place of steel and sand, where everything’s strange and king wizards plot ruin under the sky; then I came across an axe buried in a block of wood I could not penetrate, it was burning inside a fire of me; ages of smoke drifted through my mind, reminding me of a place I used to be running at the incredible crack of dawn feet on silver pegs flying on rubber, speed rush and roaring morning lit up approaching anticipation over my tripping shore becoming everything until lost hunger street; the time is empty without that feeling that takes you to meet anyone that’s sweet on lost hunger street; the night is a place of one eye and nemesis and lost and bleeding heart and crowded dreams or anything else you could want, but it all meets on lost hunger street; rain comes down forever as paper bandits grease the slip of walking at the end of the week; it is come to this then, wherever you have come from to lost hunger street; wet skin-heads slay the darkness with aggro, rain makes no distinction and music plays from doorways as lovers do too, hardly hidden, not caring ; in lost hunger street; the wolf prowls the streets frightening everyone he meets with his non-emotional greetings and hidden vain desires, he ends up too, hidden beneath his collar, half drowned, in lost hunger street; for the unconquered heroes of the night, there at last, hardly prepared or accepting the beer laden failure, but glad to rest in lost hunger street; no neon, just buzzing, and everything surreal in fits and spurts this street of crowded pub people between the last beer and home, lost in some kind of purgatory in lost hunger street; what’s left of the night ends here: men pissing, women kissing, painted women in gangs on corners, a few short moments left, a last place to fight the desperate night in lost hunger street; drug dealers in the dark corner from four bars to any melting point, labyrinthine minds taking what’s pure to the morgue; girls walk long dark and deep, drum beat people beep, door knocks clandestine, taxies purring, female fantasies, music from every entrance, empty entrances to adventure ends in a car park, old fashioned lights yellow the heat, doors open unexpected shadows become friends, others walk past voices high from dark to light, cars drift, nights adrift in lost hunger street; by day blank warehouse stare from castle to car park front windows a thousand square black and dank; by night wandering shadows, disembodied voices, displaced visions, created dreams escaping to the sky, and time doesn’t exist, just shifts of forever scenes happening, memories not taken but left to betray the next sighing shape to make it on lost hunger street; get caught here and you may never leave; if you’re young here you will be old somewhere else; if your heart falls here a lifetime could be spent pulling it back, for lost hunger street, like an amorphous succubae never lets you go until it has torn from your soul you; but it's just the poem; a scrawl of words on a blank page of life, a momentary relapse then into a concerted fusion of words to cross another border a bite of stuff put into lines, whatever was real changes; well: dragged, run or flow, doesn’t matter in the scheme of things, if you can’t stand next to the ocean and listen to the silence; going somewhere: where could you possibly go; know, want or care about anything; right or wrong, crazy, sane or other, lose it, make it, fake it or shake it, sooner or later, that calling will come for your reality; but for now it’s alright, just a scrawl that’s raining outside: rain, wetting, spitting, wind driven wind, howling, gusting, wall creaking walls, planking, corrugated, cold outside cold, winter, bleak, fire smoking fire, heating, crackling, warm inside warm, body, watching, alone hoping alone, waiting, cosy, needing listening needing, summer sun, absent rain and then Zen's starry somnambulism and subconscious perceptions while on a neoprene monkey and being chased by rail-road accident confreres with wicked palpitations and shouting: is this our heart stricken with terror and fatigue and not being able to move for ten minutes from the equilibrist epoch with nerves of steel while hysteria distracted her with shipwreck visions and negative hallucinations of dissociated obscurity concomitant to her synthesized ego and paradoxical character consciousness with sensory impressions of no church quiet on top of the hill and mysterious hidden self, antithesis to the fundamental inhibition or maybe shore leave with no friends of similar disposition, outlook and higher cognitive processes or artefacts of multi personality in the behavioural movement; and then the introspections of dialectic seminal euphoria over-took her then with its sensations of physiological excitement, pervasive vagaries, executive attributes, conceptual paradigms, interchangeable phenomena, conspicuous temperance indignation, emergency irreconcilable substructure of impulsions, internal obsessions, prodigious aboulia, indulgence of gargantuan appetite and plebeian vulgarities; so Zen found a welcome West Indian island called Martinique overlooked by Pleiades where she dreamed of queen Boudicca's boudoir and collocated her demesne drinking from a demitasse, muddled up to the neck with problems not interchangeable with anything she ever knew before; so she went to Babcock and Wilcox ltd of London and Glasgow and was filled with seditious mountainous screams; that’s when she had her first outpouring; she became famous for them and went on to say: rise up and bloom; to walk on the sun the shadow will be in the light, the light will shine on you, you will be absorbed and so will walk and walk; and the river will be the falling, it will be a tree beside you, you will walk past it, forever walking past it; your shadow will be the tree’s falling, even though the tree will never fall; it belongs to you; brightness on the leaves, brown leaves, black leaves, yellow leaves, all fallen; around you they bloom; you walk on them, you are fallen, you bloom amongst them as others walk the path; you will let them, they walk in the light too; you reserve your own space, that space you searched for and found as the night sighed for you to walk the corridors of the empty hotel full of people talking and to wish them all well; the rooms are filled with seaweed washed upon shores to walk the defeated sands, stars in their toes; gulls cry outside evoking time while laughter as free as dust in the wind is trying to find you, the time over-due; but you are no longer to be seen, while outside a wind calls your name, stone soft in a face full of freckles where a smiling pair of black eyes seen through a glass window; a moment later, a passageway of sunlight full of plastic bags of stew walking in Saturday afternoon after payday full of beer from a magic of softness under a whirling fan of movement; stone talk and the girl as the night sighed pleading your love-mouth full of desire and you paid for me with your face all black and tart; take me there you said and said again cutting on a floor of rubble; there’s room here for a poem standing in the small space of the night, like life on the shelf interspersed with broken thoughts of how long it has been to face the music as water twirls somewhere of a memory been, thinking of how pleased you were but you walked away; now this thirst of all the years would say more; but tomorrow’s too soon to forget the face in the mirror and hot snowflakes for breakfast and china tea and soul-less flies sip skinny legs; watching a picture show with 1000 voices babbling; then a faceless chin in the sandpaper mirror with images of goat skins in a hot morning; her face from the past flickering, just flickering on an ocean far away; days go by full of shadows; pieces of sinking rising to pass; polished grins flaunting bought from a store; mineral water stares doing it all knowing nothing else; did you turn the gas off; do you really have a life left; the concepts used today are these where no quiet words reign and fall about heading for another fall on an ocean; far away there is one who sits quietly, the penumbra of the vagabond, a stray shadow, something mentionable, like still life on the table too thin to be absorbed, wordlessly painting seemingly more and incumbent upon a sigh; then sweeping aside to another for a wink or a kiss, having to settle for a giggle amongst the ambience; all will be revealed though some will never know more than the hot voodoo take away taken as umbrage to swathe the excess; more, called the crowd; the poet was a maestro huge and swallowed; misery she brought oh and oh, and laughing in the face of spite to crush that memory beneath the weight of grief; but she up and surprised me by turning into a snake, half still as a woman; then she hissed at me, wrapped herself around my leg; her eyes grew huge, mesmerising as I fell into her she swallowed me whole, and I became her and she became me; we cried as we sank out of sight two lovers; and I wondered is life something you get on the back of a motorbike; but somewhere snow falls on a mountain; somewhere a desert bakes a thousand snow-flakes; somewhere is where she came from; another somewhere lies sleeping, growing sure she is somewhere, like a flower towards the sun; how many somewhere are there; we met somewhere, somewhere removed; we parted somewhere different; if we meet again will it be too late; but is first love the best somewhere; the next somewhere is always somewhere else; oh my special friend, how can I tell you; how can I say what you mean to me; what joy you’ve brought into my life; I will miss you through the emptiness so huge, through the years so long; what will I do without you; what will I say to myself now; what will I tell them when they ask; when you’re not here anymore there’s nothing left to say; you took it all with you leaving only this empty special place that belongs to you; so here is poesy; a wind blows through the still life and the sound soars in the open mind; lover’s shouts drift in the memory, summer hearts: two lazy souls; blood burns through bodies stabbed in love; boiling love scalds a virgin dream; she lies abed smiling musk from a stolen kiss, sensual sounds from a cracked throat; a flare greets the presence in love; all is light, but somebody ought to laugh because somewhere in the absorbent mist of time is a voice; it calls you, from far away it calls; inside you rains a storm, it is unreal; when you can’t go on, listen, to the voice, it is you; falls about you the illusion, there is a still place, even within the bad lands, the desert, the crowd; you seek to be found; you have heard; you are strong; nothing more is given; nothing more is needed but that still small place inside you; there is your hope; there, is a friend; waiting; but oh the haunting eyes; I couldn’t look into his eyes, they were crazy wide and staring; so I went right on past and tried to forget; but those eyes stayed with me; I can see them now, staring at me through my head, past the neon sigh, after the rest, into the fantastic, haunting the mundane, illuminated, uninvited, and indistinguishable from my reflection so far from you; so I said: doctor, doctor please knock on my door, I feel so bad I need a cure; the doctor she didn’t call and somewhere is a crashing noise not of my dreams; the doctor is looking after the baby; the doctor is drunk; like a blanket over fear she casts her spear and it penetrates me in my dream of the desert: the wolf prowled the desert; went back naked, left his mask in a smile; the desert was naked, so was the smile; the wolf woke up empty, took a breath, became one again, no more wolf; the man prowled the desert; went back crazy, left his silence in the wind; the desert was full; so was the wind; the man woke up alone, took a breath, then went back for the wind, for more of the one; the moon fills the desert, a boundless ocean, as the smiling wind wraps one naked, so close to home to fill the man with the desert’s well of boundless silence; oh, if I was high I wouldn’t need to move from the baying at my door or the wall too heavy in the air while the wheels so hard to shift that question I hear; isn’t time funny where the wind blows the dust swept howl trying to move this burning desire to move the mountain; now why did I think of that when you came too close; and what happened to all the bits that got left; where is that redhead who tagged along, pulling a string all lost in Morocco or Greece; I forget where anymore; just breathe; big bird straight line flying, white hot sun shining, the long river flowing, pebbles in the sand, far from the hot highway’s unprotected reflections; was that your smile I saw in your open arms; can I come in now; oh hippy girl; draws pictures on tables, talks with passion; walks in giant footsteps, dances through shadows with rustic pilgrims; fills baskets with fruit; grows marjoram from seed; recites old stories from childhood; looks at your mouth when drunk; abandons all sense for her sense of love; lives in a place that storms move; Zen is her name; holds herself like a candle for moths like me to flutter around; hats decorate her wall; a bike leans there too under a ceiling blistered with old, old paint; she denies everything she doesn’t like; likes everything she cannot deny; jumble sale plastic flutes play music haunting in her nights that never finish until the sun arrives; she entertains the players who are confused by their need fluttering in and out of a space far removed from the wind; hung with hippy girl faces; but somewhere the wind howls like a wolf; night shines something, maybe someone, somewhere came back a dog, howling, howling this that can’t be howled; somewhere a cry, an answer to the need howling; listen! the music far away where the night calls: come lover to me to be immersed in succulent emotion, folded within twined pressing bodies; deep penetrating gasps of breath; friction reaped heat rising, hands guiding the preference to the top, after which sleep comes; I suppose you were baking an apple pie, you usually do, for some such as I, dispossessed hanging for more in fantastic swallowed whole strange journey from rock to stone weird yearning wedged on the wheel; no space, no turn, no run, no burn, no talk but that which circles; pursued by the romantic ball and chain in world changing faster and faster; never the way of what is meant to be; then a breather, a moment for contemplation, meditation; a calm taken; could have been better; could have been worse; could have been not, when the lover turned to a beggar; I lost you in a kiss, gone full of broken promises, and no good poetry sent to lovers; shades of light and darkness pressing all-encompassing sight, reflected eyes rolling through liquid illuminating bright sky whirling dervish hanging in a corner of sighs eventually to realise, eventually; sunrise to be sleepy eyed in the woods before the rain, the moment all momentary promised up smiling at the sun, smell of leaf heaven rise; if nothing else then this is enough to answer the prayer, overdue perhaps from long ago; a memory of the kissing gate; there is a place in Ireland where lovers use the kissing gate; if a young woman has decided she fancies a young man she will throw a stone on the ground between them and ask him to step over it; if he does then he has to kiss the girl; no ordinary stone can be used, it has to be found from the mist of the early morning before the sun rises; it is said that if the young woman ties a strand of his and her hair to the stone as he steps over it he will be enchanted and lose his heart to her, and for as long as those strands of hair stay on the stone so too will he stay with her and have eyes for no other; I heard tell there is a wild red haired man telling tales and poems who lives south of the border and is accompanied by a woman as beautiful as the mist that sweeps in from the sea of a morning and takes your breath away; but far away the yearning said: oh for one last dance as the moon burnt down its silver white light over fields cold dark, the sleeping lark whispering bush, hedgerow and tree owl twit twoo, clandestinely river gurgled, bats did flight, slinking fox prey, this say the night, and then a strange sigh splashed its ruinous shadow over the amour twist innocence cast to darkness, and even Pleiades had to shiver over the place; the garden of his brother’s wife; stormy shores, ruffled and so; looking through thorns the colour of blood to quench the thirst of the hangman’s cup carried to the tedious hour of black churning his mind, momentum under the bayberry tree murmured over and over: the executioner, jezebel coming, to take him to hell; silver leaf birch, laughing whisper touch past trees sentinel, half seen as in a dream trembled limbs and stumbled feet, ame damnee along dim pathways culpable and fey; waif thin gypsy, love’s sense to burn until the turning, churning tides of day; then from the darkness unclear to embrace a black cloaked wraith, face with no grace, all answers so clear falling in her arms, the noose to fit; with one last gasp he heard her laugh: dance this, stranger, with the hangman; then disappearing to no more call falls tonight wishing rushing alright advancing to the smile of a silent plea that tumbles through events taking the toll of thoughts amorous and fey while your big face is turned to broken sky dreams and stone faced reflections upon the battlements that lean with my sigh; then she said she missed me; so I said, oh; I heard the soporific TV in the background and the drunken hushed airwaves didn’t lend her any credence; she said more but I think I didn’t hear it for I was lost in the sunshine on me shimmering in rise, gull soar by and by and again swaying branches in the breezing breeze and afar on a roof top to stand a picture summered, clear, still there after ages, then gone as the day sped away....

End of part 6

Image from Pixabay

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24.09.2019 15:46