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your pale eyes; the emptiness a blue freshness hums vulnerability wide judgements seem firm and sure and detail is so meticulous; rehearsed.
a small piece of chalk, carved with a stolen-blade and placed with others on a windowsill white is the order of the day and yet this tabula rasa curses, swears and bleeds out loud in a small room and over telephones. death cannot remember what’s said.
the paintings on the wall are perfectly hung a table full of coloured paints could become a dining place space is there and inclination buried to hate, to love; detest and query is all there is repeating this chorus we too know death.
your glacial world spreads iced sheets wide white rod has touched the northern hemisphere over walls, table, bed, tv into the distance white hummings sound the long way round to india — to your tree frozen limbs now carry you to nowhere whose shallow roots still resonate burning and freezing to distant dreamland tunes.
after time, is there no time? ... like the present.
i came at the past from a distance viewed through mesh railing my typography stopping as i approach thoughts of turning into another suburbia
following the sweep of the road the steepness of an incline bounded by shiplap to one side holed into a garden i did not recognise up and down walls the dividing privet looking for my road ... my horizontal
... and now i let the 60s in realise this is what i see and imagine being in or out or missing
avoiding the shops for a week not daring then returning without sweets no short-back-and-sides no ironmongery, no latest bike not even a loaf
... the dogs of childhood mostly gone new alleyways sign the violence of teenage years now drab sites, in daylight i walk away feeling nothing...
... next to nothing
on a windowsill i’ve seen before fragments by the wrong door ...
i remember your footsteps up our side path past the pink cherry blossom tree ... i hear the special way you round the corner your clicking heels briefly rest ... gently ... by the back door, just before you turn the handle ...
just let me put these things down when did you get here did you just arrive?
i've remembered you since at the kitchen sink. i can see you now looking up through steamed up window and a sink full of pots. i remember too being proud holding hands your tight waistband and make-up on walking to the bus and home through the park and by the building site every time their wolf-whistles your wiggly walk come on, quickly, ... and don't speak
(life hath called and death will call, Christina Rossetti)
from shore-line pavement, road mottled with white patches chewed between the lines. from empty lands rough landscapes and what they bring a little place exists, existed with roses around the door this is anywhere. fantasy can take you to a heavenly place near hell and as the body twists with wrenching sentiment please come home (to some great gathering of the clan).
a rumble in dreamland still in mind imagined peace before arriving leaving messages in birthday-christmas rhymes arrive at a place call it home chew it up a million times. on this journey moving or still home by different ways.
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