we’re not sailing or set adrift,
the night no longer belongs to or bothers us,
for we’ve moved past the moor.
swimming together, always together.
days inconsequential, like a shipless ocean.
there is no noise, or other boats
between us, the horizon shared,
a narrative of the love we swear,
without vice or anchor.
i come to you, in this old grey shirt and a smile,
promises of the heart exchanged with a glance,
bonded by the desire to never let go.
an endless sea.
i see her behind my eyes,
glowing through my every sight,
turning, twisting, blue,
each blink creates a smile.
into the waves together.
(for belinda. x)
weather & time have spoken,
the day stretches into night.
hours now mapped with the new,
still i wait for a shift.
a different window to look out of,
keys that fit another lock.
paperwork & promise,
for a life i long to live.
An empty city I don’t remember
A distant name I fail to place
People ask me questions about the past
Besides the memories I share with myself
I don’t like to remember what it was
Slowly selling what I own
Nostalgia is denial
That the future can’t be as good as an imagined history
The influence is finite
Sleepwalking through each minute
The right side of my brain
Lets me list the way it is
Is surely just the next big thing
I never had it
You never lost it
Keep on crying
If it gets you to sleep
On a global level
We can only dream of
Lapses of memory
The sound of the rain & the cool breeze across my face transports me to my then, second rental property in a suburb called Petersham. Walking onto the few dry bricks between the back door & the laundry. Walking barefoot to do grown up things; like check you have enough clean underwear for the next day at work. You try to honestly determine whether those clothes that may have been marinating in your washing machine should be ok, even though they smell a little funny, or could they possibly be washed again? It’s incredible that the most mundane of tasks can provide a direct link to a younger you. I slam the door of the washer & await the sound of the water starting to rush in. As it starts, the sound of the rain washes in again, only much louder this time. The sounds struggle at first before my ears tune in & accept them as one new sound. My concentration drifts as I step into darkness & I’m walking out the back door of the old house.
My feet are cold but it’s ok. I’m content in processing that this is really Summer & the rain, if the humidity drops, could be a cool cool change. A guitar amp is humming. It’s not turned off yet as I’d promised myself to continue practicing, even in the rain. This, though housemates joked of electrocution & waters divined. I glance around, there is rust forming on each corner of the small bar fridge & the old dryer peeling paint at my feet. No one came out here much, except to visit me. I didn’t feel like it was just my place, but I felt happy here. An ornately half lit caged-in laundry-come-lock-up. A glorified shed or shelter, if you will. The feeling I felt both then & now, was of stepping out from a house that holds its heat & into the weather we’d been hiding from. As I stare, trying to remember the difference in smell, from place to place, the memories merge like one.
Besides the odd drop of rain atop the head, you’d feel mostly safe & dry out here. It’s not so much de ja vu as a familiar feeling being out here each time. It’s like in dreams, as such, I do not mind what I am doing, but am I’m happy doing it? Like never before. I enjoy the shift from inside to out but it’s time to go inside. I asses the washing that is not quite wet and far from dry as i pile it into the dryer, “Is it clean now?” I still wonder. It’s not the laundry that connects the moments but the feeling. I am truly happy. When you are happy it’s important to remember other comparable times. To stop & smell the roses, as they say.
This is the love we wondered about.
The younger you smiles and says, “See, I told you so.”
The now you smiles to say, “I’ll promise to try & not forget.”
To only ever talk of walking tall. Letting light shine only softly & seldom seeing signs of more. Missing out on milestones. A figure is fast approaching. A grey arch over a body of water. The streetlight shows the water lapping at the heel of the dusty concrete as a choice to steer clear is made. People pass on a bridge, eerily lit by the reflection of the floating, lower waves. At night it’s so much more sinister, the bodies draw close. There is tension as their paths cross.
A missed connection, a blind spot for fate, as they both look the other way. Their stories never stick together, never intertwine. They rarely get the chance.
Folk are far too concerned with looking good or just where else to look to not look bad. Most times out of ten people really don’t care that much, their concern is with themselves. You can lose your mind if you get captured in this kind of detail. Possibilities are endless and if you don’t believe me go to any bar. It’s a room full of those professing to wear their heart on their sleeve that communicate in code, if they choose to at all.
There are no places I want to be.
I read that people of a certain faith used to sit around & get to know each other by asking set questions. The questions were set to avoid the awkwardness of what do you do, or where were your first pages turned. Only one of these seems important to me, or of any interest at all. To candidly discuss what makes you afraid with someone you’ve just met. Now that is interesting. The idea behind it is genius as your taboo then becomes your common ground, what better way to break the ice. For secrets grow stale & gain weight. If you want to handle baggage work at an airport. If you insist on traveling, travel light.
There is always an option. We choose the way we speak & to some extent, how we appear to be.
The other option is to always look for ways to stay the same.
degrees have dropped & people speak sparely about how it affected them. as a race we have a compulsion to list things. how many drinks were drunk, how long we braved an occasion, where we went next. i wonder about this desire to depict an order, is it simply to remember or rather to confirm our existence in light of others. what are we afraid of, forgetting or being forgotten? i’m not sure which is worse.
people love a holiday, it refreshes them. those that don’t make a show of things still get to return, make an entrance, come back with new stories. it’s an opportunity to experiment & change what wasn’t working. to take stock of self. rattle the cage a little. work makes people wild. it tames them to a point with routine & rhyme, but left too long it starts to reduce the sane ways we unravel things.
to be isolated for getting it wrong feels unfair. there are no rules, just people’s opinions and a want for warmth. to smile at someone is to understand a situation. from false grins to teeth baring photo faces – they all have their time & place. we carry too much information, too much advice. each time we try to move a hundred voices commence combat. falling isn’t failing & the best examples lead.
the pink and blue bleed into each other
there is not a point where either start or end
just where the sun burns past lowslung clouds
and after staring for a while,
a pattern casts, trailing with my blinking eyes
lifting and falling like life under a microscope
as I run my gaze across the horizon.
it’s nice to stop here
on the corner amidst the sea of people
pushing past to home.
darting through i notice no one looking up
lightning lets lines frame frowns
then eyes lift as mouths open,
fleeting fireworks from me to you.
the good news is,
i’m almost there.