Monday, 11 October 2010


It’s a powerful and scary place
Rough Men down below excavate the old and set the foundation
For more growths alongside us.
More steel and glass to encase distant neighbours
More flat carpet space between islands
To give this inertia a sense of purpose we cut figures of poise and containment
Runway lights on our ceiling make me want to take off arms spread wide
Chest bared to the arrow and the hailstones
I’m hoping to hit flesh and stick
Fresh, presentable, slick shoes a week off next polish
I’ve tried to sanitise this inspiration
But I want to be wet, sweaty and exhausted
Panting in giddy glee with you
And if that doesn’t sound attractive what can I do?
This clean sanity is so damn boring
I can’t sleep and in these late nights
I go travelling, fantasies run wild
Don’t want to live life like a widower by a graveside
So I’m bursting through this window to touch the fresh air
Clutching at rising wildflowers
Tasting the sickness of the city and feeling it lift
As the wind lifts me and takes me beyond
Above over and out into the Ocean above where lights pierces but never wounds and Darkness falls in shades making us beautiful
Spectrum washing over us to illuminate what lies beneath our skin
Symmetry in synergy like iron rich desert sands shifting physically
Colour Changing instantly
It’s a reaction and an anticipation
A powerful provocation
More than just a craving
It’s Boukman inciting Haitians to burn plantations
It’s a Chemical, Physical, Biological Fascination
Alive in my imagination and becoming flesh with every breath infectious with every step growing larger stronger bolder every little loving liberation growing larger stronger bolder every single act or thought or message pure growing larger stronger bolder larger, stronger bolder, than the power, larger stronger bolder than the fear larger stronger bolder than limitation we stand tall we see we hear we know we understand
This is what we have to hold to cherish to make our own and we’ll never let it slip slide, drift, let it go, never, as the waterless waves blow and unseen hands stitch our lives together now and these stories are told we can’t see the seams just feel the folds ripple along our smooth surfaces caressing those sore patches... good wine to a thirsty throat.

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