Peeping
When I first met you down by the water I was slipping under the seaweed. Hiding. I dipped and slept in cave-pockets. I hid there. I was waiting for the ammonite swirl to twist and turn me over into the rock-pools of you. I was watching for you in the pink air.
Gradh, oh how it hurts. That Irish gradh. That lovely place that shimmers and shines. Take me back there in your velvet cloth wrap me up and take me back there. I'll cut you and break you but you'll always come back for more. Until morning takes the credit for all of this. You shall not be. You shall not be.
Pebbles. With the top notes of all of this. One day I shall sit here again with unfurled flags and round red-cheeked smiles. I want to take you in here with me. Once up there with Atlas I held you. I held the roundness of you and held you up when you needed it most. I didn't want to let go with shiny green wet sea. Gerty looked at me and held out her hands. I wanted to let go of you. But you never let go. I saw you in eyes in Trinity. Heads that dipped into books and followed words and fullstopspunctumtimeless. You are timeless.
Stop and camera.
I saw you in the Book of Kells staring back at me always. I wanted to paint gold in where your face was. Gold leaf for hair too. You deserved to be gold. I wanted to take you into blue sheets and put my face into your feet. I wanted to see the mothy morning through your toes. Just a trickle of toe-nail.
It was so new. So fresh. Back to bed. Soft, red Irish hair. I had a rose-red tint. I love you. Oh, how I love you.
I said that your head rested like an egg under my arm. I wrapped it around you and held you there forever. Even after all.
posted by Molly Bloom @ 10:06 AM
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A greeting from a newly-minted stranger. Groan of door. Shaking of brownfelt hat-spill inside. Woodstool on stonetile bashcracker draggerscrape nailboards. Too wet from out there. Rednecked and smile-toothed. Flutter. Then calm.
Melampseiphidous eyes I had. Polished deer crotties. Wet sheepshits. Sharkswink. Jetpebbles. Startledbirdpopeye. The deepest empty stare of a Modigliani nude. Hidden behind the screens of thoughtlessness.
But what about the metaphysics? The metaphysics? The cleaving of brave sensuous intellect from the proud labels of clattering scribes and metricians?
Ah! That particular ravine, hurting with its snags and switches and vipers!
It serves only to build walls around the arbitrary fortress of calculable reasoning. But the landscape of thought has no such property. Between metaphysics and another man's stated empiricism there is no cloven impasse, or even a towering of masonry. Just a continuum, a cline.
Where the bold stroke of colour is as forceful as any measurement or formula. Where imagination and logos are equal.
That's the place I been this while.
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