We met under a sticky moon you could prick with sharp pin to drown the dark in its gushing midnight goo.
Don’t you see the line carved clear between us?
The border without walls?
The jagged split without rickety bridge to be never crossed, just lost to us all?
If you don’t see it just look - look to the ground and see the line that you drew blood from first, with a left right goodnight on our life together
- forever -
so many books so many chapters so many paragraphs so many lines so many words so many phrases so many hyphens so many commas so many full stops so many question and exclamation marks of our love -
but all that, just that, just talk on two (or more) blank pages, so with pen on page I speak to you across the un-crossable dark, the dinge, the down and out done forever - over -
so that all that remains is this A to Z (but missing the U) - mostly I and I alone, not two to blink together but 1 - 2 -3 and begin again with just words, just words - just - words -
Tales of love are spun like all others in life, especially those born true. With one mask of love comes the other, and that other is loss. We’re told love is forged pure by golden dusks, slow evening strolls, bodies tangled like spewing tendrils, hearts flowing free through sober-midnight-streets, smoking candles and unmade beds and tablecloth stained and rowboat asleep on still smoky lake, and on and on and on - ‘til death never part. But loss strides waist deep through the sticky waters of love to drag you down to its depths, to drown in a bleeding pit of writhing snakes spawned from the ruins of memory.
For where love comes tender, loss cries fierce. Where love brings warmth, loss strikes cold. When love coos gently, loss chews cruel - teeth stained a filthy white. Yet a couple they must come, hand-in-hand, inseparable beyond the bloating of our sun and goodbye we go, graves and all, a handful of dust scattered over the universe half-empty. For love is loss and loss is I and I am you and you are me, wherever you may be.
Image created through eco-printing method.
a hunger sized from what we’ve become
drifters bingers sleepers in the rough
tough luck to midnight singers and swingers off the cuff
‘cos reason has gone from the treason of none
but a few -
so roll between finger and filthy thumb.
Over the basin columns of rain run thick against the dying land. A landscape bruised ochre by Autumn’s swinging fist. The trees shake. Coming darkness moans. We run.
Image created using a plastic lens and old 35mm cinema stock.
Thick with tall grasses waving their solemn green heads in a slight of summer wind, the meadow is littered with purple orchids that dwell brazen between the slender blades, whilst buttercups reach their tender yellow heads for a taste of the warm breeze. At the edge, red campions tremble nervously beneath a gruesome brush of blackberry and gorse.
I sit alone on the lichen-licked bench where we would spend those sad Sunday afternoons, our lives interlocked and flowing with foolish impossibility, the world rolled red carpet before us as we watched it sigh slowly by. Only a whisper of icy wind can be heard tonight, broken by the occasional drum-hum dour of humdrum soul passing home via headlight, unaware of my eye peering indifferent to the below.
Caked-up in makeup, seventy-plus old standing cold under broken bus shelter, wishing it would fold -
already-drenched drunks huddled in midday hovels, illuminated by the flickers of TV sets, trapped in their liquid nets -
then the sudden bell slap for noon, another sad Saturday -
Image created using a Lomokino.
Preacher stands at the fore, blazing light of truth on either side, directs this cut-down congregation to the up above commandments, carved on stone unseen.
Image taken using a Lomokino.