I keep throwing up
Is it that I miss you that much?
Is it that letting you go
Leaves me physically love sick?
Or is it just the whole box of cigarettes I smoked
You kissed me in that way you do
With a big grin on your face
Your hands together in front of you
I want you back here now
That I let you leave
meet on the road
which that day
is a frozen food aisle
thrill and hesitation
leaning on a car bonnet
and a pad of paper
we trade numbers
and part carrying
Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.
I’m thinking now of erasure. That way that you can disappear from someone’s world even though you’ve just met them.
I often felt like this. Invisible and ghostlike. That great passions, intimate dreams and rare inspiration can so quickly evaporate in morning light. This last time reduced to a text message.
I’ve evaporated. Like so much red wine left at the bottom of a glass… Given a week, where angsty recollection, dreamy midnight pauses and the soft stubbornness not to clean the glasses and clear the table leave that time spent together a rippled dry plum red at the bottom of a glass.
Blood. Dead and dried, two metres away clinging to glass like the memory; but when approached still have the scent of that initial romance. Still, in it’s deadness when breathed recall that rarer time.
I have five poems.
But I know from too much experience that any effort to recall this time- To fix it in words, is its end. That drawing a mask from the feminine mystique constitutes a definitive symbolic violence– driving real love away with a symbolic replacement. Is it too much to turn a real moment into forms? Or is it never enough?
Those of you who know me might know that i have an unnatural attachment to mixtapes, whatever form they turn up in. Here is a find. I stumbled across this playlist rolled together by a guy(girl?) that calls him(her?)self ‘Datasuck‘ … I love being rewarded when I click blithely around, and the serendipity of this little find endears me to it all the more: The only reason I wound up discovering their cute sense of humour, and delicious sonic tastes was that it included what is now my favourite track from the new Smashing Pumpkins album.
This mix is wonderfully put together, passing through cute almost self effacing almost 8bit, through a driving polished house remix’, then reaching a sad creshendo in the final few tracks, finising on that new SP favourite of mine. I has left me simultaneously elated and nostalgic.
I don’t know if it’s ‘New Wave’, but if it is then it’s definitely more ‘modern’ for all the extra texture there wasnt in 1989.
And I love it.
It’s well timed. For me at least. It’s been a tough couple of weeks for me (or months? or years?) so it’s particularly pleasing to be reminded, right now, of how I adore the witching hour, and all these dreamy droning tones.
I’m wondering if I shouldn’t put up a little listening station with a microfm transmitter somewhere…
Rom: …Then love-devouring death do what he dare;
It is enough I may but call her mine.
Friar: These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite.
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
– W.S. R & J 2,vii
i flipped on Baz’ version of R&J
and half paid attention
treating it more like background radio
not having a radio here
these words leapt out
for some fairly obvious reasons
and reminded me of every old love
(and one or two)
fire and powder
as they kiss
The second line of final couplet
strikes me as forced
(but i’m probably just resistant)
2012 …. Emma was the great, tortured, love of my young life.
I spent four days with Nicci, in a well of grief and abandonment, she reached out like an ever chuckling angel at just the right moment and, in just the right way. She hocked her camera too keep the wine flowing, and I bought her an emerald before the week was out. There was someone else, there always is for me. It’s my metier, my modus operandi, and my curse.
He never learned her, quite. Year after year
That territory, without seasons, shifted
under his eye. An hour he could be lost
in the walled anger of her quarried hurt
on turning, see cool water laughing where
the day before there were stones in her voice.
He charted. She made wilderness again.
Roads disappeared. The map was never true.
Wind brought him rain sometimes, tasting of sea –
and suddenly she would change the shape of shores
faultlessly calm. All, all was each day new;
the shadows of her love shortened or grew
like trees seen from an unexpected hill,
new country at each jaunty helpless journey.
So he accepted that geography, constantly strange.
Wondered. Stayed home increasingly to find
his way among the landscapes of her mind.
– Dennis Scott