testing, testing, testing
it’s been silent for a long time now,
and I’m not sure just where I left it
took one to bed
took nothing from it
took one to drink
was going well
I think I think
I think too much
take little from it
testing, testing, take time to think
take one to drink
it’s all a bit shit without practice
no one with whom to test it
don’t waste their time
don’t take too long
no interest vested
it’s all too vague when there’s nothing there to make it stick
we laugh, I laugh
four years down and still no respite
still just waiting
missed one, missed two, missed her
check the phone
and no one texting
there’s nothing there,
and nothing waiting
things will come
but none become
the one to test with
Perhaps by some shift of gravel
unforeseen by eternity.
Perhaps by a slip of the body
numbed by the push of countless yesterdays
and that what is now must be.
Who knows what grain of chance
finally broke Olympian will.
In the last moments,
shoulder against stone,
the absurd judgement echoed in this head,
falsely easing the inevitable heft.
Then just the newly silent hillside,
and Sisyphus dead.
muffling blankets of rain, shrinking the world
to the inside of the car,
to the memory,
to the cave of bedsheets that was sanctuary,
to New York where I didn’t want you,
and then I didn’t want to without you,
to the night in the field
with champagne and light rain.
Then the world shrinking to only me
and dim flashes of possibility.
where do we find you
if not at the horizon,
pushing the sky back so others can breathe?
How heavy can your name be,
how heavy the gavel, the eyes on you?
Is it the kind of weight
that ruptures through the skin,
tearing lips and branding bones?
What’s the measure of your worry?
Does it span from streetlight to streetlight
on unsafe side streets, where your body is yours
but still you need to hurry?
Does it taste like the sand
they force you to die kissing
at their feet?
We seek you.
Understand the urgency.
So where do we find you?
On the way home,
safely at the brim of quarter century,
asking if you’ve built on what was given
and if the kiss was arbitrary.
A viscous memory coats your tongue
and unsettles your insides
like reluctant oil from crushed seeds
when routes frayed by time are forced back together
by some scent or song
that at once plants and harvests you
from the soil where the paths were
yet to part.
Back on two feet
Two wheel speed gone,
of physical memory
But walking frees the mind;
the steady drum of feet
beats the time.
So back to the ancestral pace;
the routes of the human race
were formed at walking speed.
All too effortless.
You watch the clouds shift
whilst time carves deltas by your eyes.