i played with pretty white lace doilies when i was younger,
colouring in the fragments piece by piece with the occasional eureka moment of
cathartic ecstasy and i think Archimedes said once that he had “got it” but i
don’t know what he thought he had gotten because really no one has anything at
all and there are stars stars stars with a wrong light all wrong but still
singing and the crystal wine glass is full of dark red with little white lines
of reflected light like i am watching raindrops plink to the ground full of hope but it is washed out of them and i
want to seek you out but i don’t know who you are or what you look like or
where you live i only know that you are oh so beautiful and i want you to be
happy there’s a terrible knowledge sitting in my heart that tells me you’re sad
and i don’t know why but it makes me cry as i look at you in all my favourite
photographs like a model on the catwalk and you don’t know who you are without
the heels and the makeup but i’m telling you never let anyone tell you how to
live or who you are because media is hiding you away and you need not be hidden
i promise you there are promises and then there are promises and this is the
second kind the kind that is always kept cat-silent and the horizon isn’t
really so far away you know it is only that it is always moving like a dream
ahead of me and i can’t – quite – catch it – and there you see gone again like
the horizon i can’t follow you wherever it is that you go when your eyes are
distant and you don’t focus on me when i say your name i used to think that the
moon followed the car when we wound round twisty intersections
copper-snake-like and you fell asleep with lavender eyelids fluttered deep
dream sleep bone tired scar tired high wired
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