It’s kinda funny
Like screwball comedy
Or
A Tango dance
It’s not Romance – a Capitalist plot with Valentine’s Day chocolate boxes or candle-light dinner with white table cloth
Shudders!
But a Badiou Event
Like French Revolution, or Einstein’s Relativity
In this long, antagonised slow dance
We swapped warts,
and erasure.
You showed me your castration,
then I showed you mine.
“OK!”
You never call me by my name
While I always call you by your name
Because your name, as common as it is, dances on the tip of my tongue
Rapidly gathering an emphatic materiality — a weight, a momentum, a fullness
That can only be released through the larynx.
I don't call other names orally
You never call me by my name though
As if it’s a top secret that cannot be uttered
As if it’s an impossible melody to hum
As if it’s a regret life cannot afford
As if it’s a bell ring that would trigger
A crumble of you
Saw
a very cute young couple
on the ancient, giant slopes of Acropolis;
The girl was clicking a camera
‘Another one!’ she shouted her order
The boy was Le Penseur in one second
Eminem another
Couldn’t move my eyes away
mesmerised;
Such a fragile, feathery thing, unintelligible
tickling my hypothalamus –
Am fiddling the iPhone angle
‘Paul, strike another pose
grab your crotch!’
“The first forty (fifty) years of life give us the text; the next thirty supply the commentary on it.”
Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
The literal aching
of this physical organ
That is heart
In the pitch-dark insomnia
Full-bodied pain
Nowhere to escape
Do I have to do this again?
The only counterpoint
The nuclear force, the tsunami
To trigger
A tidal wave of intensity, in equal measure
To soak wounds
Is this my trying to preserve fragments
Of our last love making?
Lilac, eagle twist, spikes that could punch a hole in your heart
Piecing pleasure was mine
The same yet different look in your eyes
Were you weeping?
When turning away from me in darkness
I was simultaneously turned on and immensely saddened at your voice, your reading; I threw myself into bed sobbing and coming.
The thought of Mum hit me
Out of the blue;
I was jogging on Bowen, preoccupied with something else, while having Podcast on
A favourite cultural critic was trashing a one-time bestseller;
About positive thinking with a funny title
She presented to me many years ago, as a sort of gift;
“What a silly book,” then I said
Sent it away to whom I can’t remember;
Now
My heart has grown more capacious and tender
But Mum is gone.
Gracefulrock's Blog 