7 June 2007

Pantomimical Bids for Cross-coptic Septicaemia

... and who
ever said that life is suffering
i think they had their finger on the pulse of joy

Save for a canvas and billow-blown flares, the steering appears easier without air. Without water or sand, without weight or person or pearls of wisdom. Claims of silentry in the lost lingual scratchings that tumble and terminate in our off bantor or sly, red-wine-stained brass, our struts and affront and collapsed silver in congress claim us. We are thieves, thanatopsical deliquents mad with sex and sin and gathered in at the pleats. Forsook. Forsaken. Utterly lost for the words and ways to make the idea of love believable and impossible. Profundic. Prolific.
Spaces. Spans. The without all the more apparent, the lack concerned and adherent, all bottle-empty, lolling lack of amphoric syllables to couple mine. Simple. Without you here there is less to say. Commas take up the cause and push into an ellipsis saving space on the uselessly said words, the social-strata tap dance. The numbing gratification has postponed from the lidocail foot-to-foot foray, pretending our suffering from happiness is somehow less futile than the futility we feel from each other. Impractical patience it seems, impractical dreams of grey noons in the heathered green rains, hats at jaunty angles, slick-slate woven streets crystalline under the hogmanay lights. Impotence in white snow and broken spun bens, and all the ancient musings positing new lives sans lies with finer cold curls of wool and cotton jumper threads. For ten minutes more I'd run my finger through the condensation bleeding through the glass from black draft to amber-wine table, wandering thumbward in the dimly-snug-sung tallowed lamplight.
The blaring magenta-green gashed through with violet still dances across the northern black ice of some same cold corridor in my veins. Sewn into my sleep is a reverie of your skin-clad, portrail beak, all your gone, dizzy spun sanity that shamed those hallowed haloed-haired belles, clanging timorously to our peals. Simpering little knots that they are, little hindu sorel bits that flow jasmine and orange.
Home. Handsome-faced women oozing lilac poems splayed on corduroy rugs. Given a few things. We are home. Together.

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