All entries for Thursday 31 January 2008
January 31, 2008
ATLASYou cannot solve the world
and she cannot solve your thought.
The horizon hatches in you
low and dark
and her fingers up and down your spine
are as altering
as the grass heads
to the wind.
She tenses for both of you
and watches you bear the earth.
Cowed and loving,
heart gripped and furrowed.
Mute in the audience
of your frown.
Fletch squats his fat butt down onto the
where it sways, half belched,
in the decaying park.
The children fight and play
while Fletch smokes fat Rothmans
and itches his ears
with his newspapers.
Business sheets. Thick and pink as
Twice as useless and unstudied.
Sometimes kids swing, or point out his
slow eyes. Thighs.
Trees recoil without cannons,
crenillating and slow.
Watched. Creaked autumns and Sundays
and Mondays and spring,
buttonholing the days.
Fletch likes the park.
In his pocket, there is a ring
that his older sister
left by the stove.
His dark hysteria and her own
retreat back to their faces, cigarettes
guzzled incongruously, and sad hands clasped.
Determinedly they kiss away their woes,
and wrap their thighs about each others thoughts.
But In the hearts, the wordless whispered loves,
she hears the seed of doubt much like her own.
Her: The coward in the face of joy.
Her love: The young backed titan with his thoughts,
too proud to fear the portent of his frown.
These blissful tear eyed lovers make their smiles.
That stone is in her heart now he has gone
too many miles to lift it out; burdened
as he is by pebbles he has found.
Seam bursting gut straining sprout chewed
tongue flapping rolling squelching cramming heaving
and the room for one more sugar chocolate mouth
hot thirsty mouth and the nauseous gut
swollen into the round.
Christmas. Sick clogged belly fare
tables clustered and jostled and heaving at the joists
hoisted laden forkfuls and crumbling turkey flesh
and skins juiced with gravy fat and oil. Herb crinkled potatoes
squishing under the knives. The goodslush and the hot mulled
slurry of kings, food falling out, spilling over the white cloth
and warm on the cold plates.
It is in the dark that I find the difference
between myself, the green ink user, biro penner,
and you, who blues out thoughts in fountains, scored wet
between our thighs and scrawled on our hot backs.
Nibbed up into us the words, and their oppositions,
inter-loop: some dry and some bleeding out;
Looped sighs over the kaggy handed words.
Looped sighs bind our opposing minds
into composing flesh and sweat. In the dark
our difference condenses, smudged under the finger
tips and the mouth, and the cry words and the language
of a sobbing groin. It is in the moment, repeated, that
our sentences find one another, and we are the same
writer, with different diction. Later I scratch out your
scent, verdant, in words such as melting snow,
silver polish and moss. And the sound is mine.
She lets you open her
like the two halves
of a nectarine,
from about it’s core.
You liked the seed:
Licked it, and kept it in your palm.
Now, without you,
she shall never be whole.
She screams out sometimes
in her sleep,
and you whisper her awake,
close to the moon of the nose
that has taken in your smell.
The sighing mouth
that sometimes smiles around
your wide heat.
She watches when your
and your frowns come,
and leaves little bruises
with her teeth,
upon your arms.
You comfort her in the old fears,
and the fear
of this new requirement.
She sits by you
with the silence of tea,
from your finger dance.
The tasteable smell.
Now her throat throbs
while dual skins cool:
The gate is warming in the morning sun
and where it holds my arms. Over the fields
I see your head limp and I kiss our son.
The still cold breeze halts. It scents his hair
Where it stirs under my lips. Thin
and warmer; You approach us, bearing pears
in your thick arms. Our child gargles at the
orchard and the softening view. You
check, pause and smile in your journey.
Bulbous fruits red-rolling your hairs, and, damp
from the tree, wetting the shirt. You
are as toughened and tall he is plumped
The pears are for us both and our
fences whiten in the light. Faces
turning simultaneous to him,
pinkened by the wind and by the joy.
These circular words are dancing:
Carving rings into our chests.
Thoughts as brands, compassed
and encompassing the strange world,
returning, unsolved, to itself.
Scarring the irreconciled hearts.
What can one do but tremble
when the bleak ideas come,
unanswerable and cold?
One of us frowns, black eyed,
into the unknown fibres of his night.
The other twitching in her terror
of old discontinued discourse.
Of the weight of all those words
that fail, and the need
to engender them:
In the shifts of naked skins
in the reverent lipping things,
kisses, irrelevant, and sighs.
But what are these
when she cannot find the lies
to form your comfort?