Saturday, April 23, 2016
Saturday, April 16, 2016
|Cosmic Voyage (1935)|
We made love in deep space
and felt our bones turn thin as parchment,
muscles unbound by zero gravity
and our synchronised spasms
diffused from our particular brain waves
to travel beyond time’s continuum
our combined gasp for oxygen
reverberating against tympanic membranes
of stars long dead though their light
lived on in our veins, their elements
dissolved in the saliva beneath our tongues
as we kissed for the years of plenty
we left behind in our deepest sleep
the long drifting through vantablack, devoid
of all life beside our own, no love but ours
Inspired by Izy Gruye's Soviet Kitsch prompt and written to the music of All India Radio.
A note on Vantablack.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
A Conversation Piece
|Bust of a Woman, Arms Raised|
Pablo Picasso (1922)
Don’t the dead deserve an apology, he asked.
And I replied, I apologise to the dead all the time,
but still they haunt me in my dreams.
Have I deserved these loving ghouls, blocked
doorways, the sense of travelling through time
in the brief seconds between asleep and awake?
Life drove them to death. No more.
Me, left behind, dissatisfied with history.
He said, If I had too much room, I wouldn't
be able to compress my ideas into songs.
They would float around. Flecks of dust.
Out of time. Awkward parts of an uneven whole.
But I do not think the space makes a difference,
not to the river over-reaching its banks, or salt
on the tip of a tongue. The edge of a page
is an illusion; margins man-made. The dead know.
I dreamed that I woke and found you
sleeping beside me, dreaming you had lost
everything that ever justified the bread
on your plate, the ribbon in your hair.
To which I replied, You did not dream.
I do not understand this flesh,
the many mouths to be filled and emptied,
the tiny bones that bear the weight,
the hair fall, the circles beneath my eyes, eyes.
You are beautiful, he told me. I am consolidating
my inventory. Reconciling my art with my lists.
I did not reply, but itemize my parts in ones, twos.
Something is missing from my body, or perhaps
I do not know if any of this will make sense. Tomorrow.
Out of six corrections, four will need correcting.
We are in between, I say. Beauty and numerical order.
I love you. And for that, you deserve an apology.
The Tuesday Platform