Skip to content

Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

Tag Archives: Say I am You

Five more days.

I am a dreamer. It was said that one day I would lose myself, and everyone else to (my) dreams. But did I not dream you into life? Or was it you who dreamt of me first? It’s hard to believe oneself immaculately conceived from dreams alone. Dreaming, alone; dreaming alone.

Let me see your face. You face lit up by twenty centuries. Who told me you had stars in your eyes? Let me see your heavenly body. Star-proof I am not. From a hundred billion others, you hurled yourself down in gassy form; no definite boundaries, no fixed volume. You could have filled any space but the space you filled was me. I saw you drop from the roof of the stars, and in the moment of your falling, you began to be defined.

I picked up the flickering body, frozen in crystalline form, kissed the place of your face and the solid geometry of each limb. Five points you; legs, arms and face, a pentagon of hope, and me a talisman at your hand. Revoke me; You do. Call me back and back through the wastes of time, here, there, nowhere, carrying white roses never red. Not a dead poet but a living love, and if the words I bring are dusty, I will renew them in your mouth.

But I am also a realist, brutal on my own fodder of Truth/truths, savage as any uninhabitable space. In my dreams I give you the living word, not promises but the living word: let the blind lead those who can see but cannot feel.

Advertisements

Tags: , , , ,

Every movement necessitates an overwhelming sensation. The air grew cold, and for a moment, smelt of Melbourne: careless, sleepless, tireless; free. That particular street with the imposing french windows and screaming typography on every pane beside the quaint cafe with cheap pots and skull-warming heaters hung aloft, the same street where we walked until our feet hurt our pockets empty but our hearts full of purpose and possibilities and eventually we bought a pair of pumps each, in feeble surrender. Those were the nights of milk and honey, and cheap cigarettes. I had so much less of everything then.
This is my fourth night, completely clean.

And here I stand again, waiting in a different time and place, where all of the little rights and wrongs dissipate beneath the lights of a false, obscene winter in quiet contemplation of aesthetics over ethics; like Winterson’s Picasso and Sappho intertwined. Why are we moved? Because there is an excess within our lack thereof(s); a thousand things, people and events at any given time for which and/or whom we have no language for.

“Why do I long for another turn of time? Why do I want the clock to go faster when my life depends on holding back the hands? Why? I want to kiss you.

Kiss me with the hollow of your mouth, the indentation of desire. Kiss me with the pulled-apart open space, demolition of propriety, rebuilding of a place of worship among an upright people. She kisses me. The words that there are, fly up from her lips, a flock of birds cawing at the sky. An engine of wings migrating through the world but she makes her home in me.

**

Love me (…) through time, beyond the clock. Help me forget my life.”

They say the heart is a weapon the size of your fist,
(but how terribly small)

Tags: , , , ,