if a picture is worth a thousand words,
why do i bother writing?
the anti-margarine party will be making another display tomorrow, but only in a sidestreet - a cloudstreet. there they will cut a waspish stance and complain about composite functions, sporting identical monologues of numbed existentialism. their wish to change the onomatopoeia of this noxious city is admirable but it’s hardly even an echo of what would be necessary to tip the scales of logic.
i will donate a dime to their cause, but only a dime, as it’s not part of the currency of the south of the river - or the north either, i suppose. the shrill parade will be halted by their dreams seeping away down the drains and soaking the asphalt, and with a certain disconcerted pride, the party will lay down their words and kneel.
it’s a finding out of cloudy daymares, illuminated by sprays of vowel sounds and punctuated by a blankverse impression of traditional contradictions.
it’s an exacerbation of your lonely hours, that drift in the brilliance of ochre notes, released in a ream of harmonics.
it’s a part of the snare, and we are seated behind a scrapbook of our future, and we traverse it in silence, until the moment the fires burn the other way.
it’s a syntax of stutters.
if this
could be
a message in a tin can
it would be filled with high-contrast
paraphrases
of embroidered affection and unbridled
understanding
and overexposed parallels
that are held at arm’s length for infinity.
-
my umbrella is my weapon
of choice
or design
i am self-respect and protectionism
and you are the epitome of
it
-
and belonging to you is like
climbing the stairs
to an exciting existence
in a cosmic armchair
because
i
want
you
to be my valentine this time.
i’m not simple
enough to
make you
understand me.
it’s just a
pointless
exercise
really.
i have found this to be untrue
and strange
and wasteful
this is the “all i have” edition
of something procured
a long time ago
procured from the pockets
of the heavy winter jacket
that is my imagination
and pluckity pluck to you
dear sir,
i am dripping with the
tears i’ve shed
but
i don’t remember why
or how i got here
-
i have a feeling
that you forgot
that my kind of silence is empty
and the hearts you left behind
are still dripping with the
tears they’ve shed
but
i have been hung out to dry
and i thank him for that.
I.
small clouds congregate
and they lightly, lightly dance
and they lightly fade
fade into focus as clouds
they forget that winter dreams.
II.
unspool all these threads
until rain is part of you
become transparent
so that all clouds can witness
the dance of between the lines.
III.
for sanctuaries
aren’t easy places to find
i have searched the skies
and all that i found was you
still dancing away the rain.
IV.
and still dancing you
you’re lightly, lightly dreaming
of cloudless nights there
but while winter still remains
still those small clouds congregate.
it seems such a shame
for us both to be apart
and yet i can dream
of worlds in third person and
a life as the only one.
it hardly seems a
life meant to be remembered
but i hope it is.
I.
i’m so glad it’s late.
ii.
if only you were here now,
iii.
i might stay this glad.
IV.
i can write of all this,
V.
and yet still maintain a smile,
vi.
just because of you.
vii.
and if we had never met,
I.
i’d still be so glad it’s late.
