wish we could drink pleasure: ramblings and 4 poems

Last night I awakened to the sounds of the moon howling brightly into my bedroom window. I realised I had changed into a woman where once I had been a girl. I got up from my bed and walked through the moonlight to the mirror hidden in the shadows. How pale the moon makes my eyes look, how alive she reflects my inner sights. I watched the play of light and dark on the contours of my body and imagined myself in a body not my own. Not my own. His hands wandered over the subtle curves and sharp angles, slowly marking his territory, slowly discovering new countries.

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Tasting time in a kiss
And in that moment
And in your eyes
All that was me was silent
And still alive
And in that stillness electric
I feel your heart beating
where mine still is…
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my love,
you are deep pleasure.
consider mine

like tender, familiar pure soul
sweet embraces warm and complete.
I am full here in you.
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gently love,
our sacred motion
in wonder

dreams for breath.
strength feeds wild rhythms in us;
tender magic sensual love.
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consider space, mine.
every bold nibble
like sweet mystery
wet bliss celestial moment
melt familiar you.

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laugh, my lover
between thought and feeling
is the sky.

Wish we could drink pleasure

in winter

On crisp winter days I like to drive through all the tree-lined streets so I can see hidden pieces of sky. Steel-grey here, arctic blue there and a sun that burns with a cold fury. The naked trees stand limb-like promising a breath of new life. It’s in these moments I see winter’s heart laid bare.

My drive begins slowly; my route indefinite so each sight stands sacrosanct. Yet time plays havoc with my mind as I return everything seems closer somehow. The unfamiliar is now known, recognisable in time and distance.

There’s something distant about winter. It’s that feeling you get lying in your lover’s arms at night. You feel arms holding you tight, hear the beating of a heart, and feel the deep intake of breath, rhythms in and out. And yet you are alone; they are lost in a world of dreams and fantasies where you cannot follow. A distinct journey you cannot share and make familiar, sights that will never be recognisable in time.

At the end of one of these roads I get out of my car and walk quickly, firmly always to the same place. It is the only routine part of my routine. There is a park bench here in-between two trees whose roots are tarred in. The bench is stained with age, at once worn and solid like the wood of these giants that stand guard, protecting it from the world.  The bench faces an abandoned cemetery. Through the broke-down fencing, you can see the crumbling headstones of a children’s garden of remembrance. It is a strange sight; the decay of lost lives.

Yet It is a comforting place for me. The stillness of the cemetery makes strange company in my solitude. Always I find myself waiting for something to happen, for a disturbance anything to shatter the quiet; something to bring a return to life. It is one of those ideas better left unvoiced. What has drawn me here again? Each time I come I vow it will be the last. Vow that this fascination is morbid and unreal a way of escaping the world not embracing it. But mostly I see the graves as a promise of difference- a reminded that life continues even when bodies do not.

Each year I take a rubbing from one of the headstones. I have a decade of stories neatly catalogued and cross-referenced. Lost lives haunt each page. Books of what may have been.

After this communion I make my way to the burning ground where they still light huge wood pyres. There is a spot on a slight rise overlooking the grounds. I sit on the earth feeling the coolness slip into my skin and watch as the fires rise up each burning higher brighter than its neighbour. The smoke turns black at its tip as each atom of humanity returns to the ether.

I come here because there is one grave that is meticulously maintained. Rich red roses line the edges of the small plot. A tiny flame fights the wind for life. The headstone reads Julian Templar 1272 – 1279. It is the winter of 2002.

There is a small note under a stone in front of the tombstone:

The boy walked fluently, a quality not congruent with his apparent age. He moved steadily up the hill paying little attention to the soft rain or the passing cars, his go-cart following in his wake. The child said that the world was his and that he belonged to an order unknown to this age. The sign along the roadside said Fairville. The scene seemed to melt in with the boy’s presence. It was appropriate.

The ABC of cutters and their contributions.

This is an experiment in cutting up text. Or reusing text in different stories.

Here are some contributions:

A: “the door was open when i got home. I sensed you near the doorway just out of sight but you were quick for me. you’d left before i arrived. Still,  there is always signs of you here. the bite on my shoulder, your books by the bed. you are these rooms. And then your shadow falls across my face.  a kiss on my wrist. rose petals on the floor, soft candlelight. the wind blows. the books shiver.  i dive into memory…

we swim around the house, breaststroke in the bedroom, freestyle in the lounge. butterflies in my eyes. the house releases its wings – great red things that flap furiously.  you ask me to dance. We swirl across the floor. faster,  faster flowing into each other until your hand lets go. until my hand won’t hold on.  you float away leaving me stranded. And I slipped unseen through the cracks. sometimes i am the spaces between bricks holding this house together. sometimes.

I walk up the stairs listening to the creaking and cracking –  i wonder if it’s me or the wood. you brush past me… i think. Everywhere there is some sign of you. the slamming of doors. the breaking of glass.  A window shatters, my hand bleeds. Looking at the damage I see it is nothing some plaster won’t fix.

i need a drink of water. as i walk down the stairs I hear the tap running in the kitchen.”

B: “this sacred space is unfamiliar changed removed. I look at my scars and the unpainted walls around me. How like this house my body is – I inhabit it and when I am gone it will no longer be mine or me. I carry it with me always. In my heart a home.

Like some dusty trinket my soul is hidden in some place I cannot reach – forgotten. The steady ticking of a clock echoes my steps down this corridor beating in sympathy with the blood in my veins. Gentle note echoing heavy and light. Memories capture me like old family photographs. This wall covered in lost dreams is my young spirit before time moved swiftly between dark and bright.

If the clock should stop my house will never hear such comforting sound again. Something is missing in my room – desperately sought steadfast  intangible. Lacking in purpose it lays fallow. I must sow the seeds of growth and change its nature.

I find myself in the rifts on the ceilings between the cracks in the bricks lines around my eyes peeling paint on these walls. Signs of decay. Age shows its face in these ceilings these floors these hands these feet. I walk up the stairs listening to the creaking and cracking – i cannot tell if it is me or the worn wood.

The blaze of the fireplace ruptures the discordant beating of my heart.  Things come and go, changes turn with the seasons and all that remains unmoved is me. A window shatters, my hand bleeds. Surveying the damage i note that the damage is nothing some plaster won’t fix.”

C: “I woke up this morning because I could hear someone breathing. I opened an eye and looked around but the room was empty. The sound was still there; faint and steady. It was then that I realised I could hear the universe growing around me.

i need a drink of water. as i walk down the stairs I hear the tap running in the kitchen.”

Read the pages.

There’s Gallimaufry and Transmogrify.

Lesson 789: Disemvowelled Shakepeare

1.T b, r nt t b: tht s th qstn?

2.t s tl, tld by n dt

Fll of snd nd fry: sgnfyng nthng

3. Cry “Hvc!” nd lt slp th dgs of wr.

4. Frnds, Rmns, cntrymn; lnd m yr rs.

5. t t dmnd spt! t … sy.

6. Gt th t … nnnry.

7. ll th wrld’s … stg.

8. By th prckng f my thmbs,

Smthng wckd ths wy cms.

9. Smthg s rttn n th stt f Dnmrk

10. t t brt!.