Pacify the Desire

Waxen glib. The pretty words inside my head slip out, legs from a warm bed. The heavy sound of rain disturbed the peace in my head, what I created in my temple. Screen faded to black, disappeared in that nanosecond of time, and I've went back to my lazy ways. Leaving things on worktops, procrastinating for days. I call it the peacetime. Vitruvius on the sundial. Boarding in Chinatown. Everything comes to an end. No vertical shadows are cast at noon, I know.

How steel pressed against my cheekbones. The feeling of love explodes, in hotels, in locked rooms, at the touch of the sun on my lips. I remember all the things I've seen and all the places I've been, in a kaleidoscope, but they can't amount to the flowing waterfalls in my imagination, nothing can. Two hundred million years ago I would've been in a different jungle, now I hang from the city as if I'm jewels in an ear. Answering to the internal stimulus, the tearaway.

I am the saltern at Whistler Blackcomb. Evaporated centuries with a belt around it tell me there's no time to spare. Tracing along the path of an unmarked track, I fall into loopholes, furnaces with no remorse. I close doors. Unholy. Crystallised honey. Black cherries and red roses. So good my eyes water, so pure the river runs clear, so pronounced I forget my fears for a moment in time, for a nanosecond, then the life drains out of the sober body. Caught in a moment I can hardly describe. So good I wish it lasted all night. 

When everything is going to plan, and I have everything I could ever wish for, and life is unfolding like it should, I always think about crashing. It's an automatic reaction. I'm frozen while the noise scatters, deers into the trees. I made a saccade and caught the light, and it burned into my skin. Dark desires from within. Blue midnights. I gloss over the arctic cold and glimpse shadows cast around town, making blunders. Down dark lanes moving slowly to music.

Not thinking twice, paying the price. I am adamant I will die tonight. Not shocked by leaves, subtle movements. Cars broke down. By the bridge I often cross, where men stuff chickens and eat them like children. Trapped by gossiping cold. Icicles. I have never felt a better feeling on that rainy night an inclination was born. Effervescent soda. In between Granton Cres and Bellrock Path. Everything I desire I have at my fingertips, except love. The feeling of being free. Oscillating stream in a gorge. On tarmac, proud matador. Sculpting essays. I am unerring in my abode with my essentials, though the pain resumes. 

Every honeymoon dies quietly. Without a sound my hands shake with the scalpel. All I can hear are ear explosions. Knee-deep in the lore, in the art of it. The first leaf is growing from a seed, from the waterstone. Head over heels. It's a big deal to me. The unloved antique, an intransigent fleet. Floating in a dogmatic sea, a bottomless sea, in the heart of the deep. On the underside, I certainly don't stand on ceremony these days.       

The winter rain is a godsend. Swollen. Picking up the fragments of the clouds. The motif stands in the background. Observing student. In the grip of the hydraulic press. Derp. From the mountain top to the base, I always thought it would end like this, with a deadly kiss. Nothing is in my brain. I am as empty as a can, in my isolation. Failing to emphasise the kernel. Beside the sheaf I've scattered with my sharp elbow I'm home alone, waiting for a brainwave. Something important to say. Diving through overlapping ocean waves. Calm and haywire states wallowing in bespoken solar systems. Sadness I bespoke.

Stars in milky ways, at the inevitable acme. Weeping outside of Golgotha. I am a mosaic with each long-winded day. I see hollow futures. Oxyacetylene welding. I've prayed my cries for help would've been heard, but each night nothing has happened other than regret. I've been ridiculed by the bathos, the emeritus Sun. Crossing the celestial meridian. There's a dent in the chimney of reason. A great guffaw breaks from its cage with great celerity and runs with the lilt playing softly. It's a phantom in chains. Trespassing. Trespassing on flesh. In the unfurnished apartment my ghosts wear the sting of death, and they tell me about dreams which glitter. I've spent summers writing them on reams, on moonbeams, and it has been a very well harvest. A story in a foxhole.

I can't get anymore cold. I have crawled into the capillary thinking warm things, hoping I can solve the riddle, I have seen the face of horror, the white face of fishbones. Embarking on the constant change in the babel. I've forayed empty spaces with the obvious intention of finding a doctrine, nevertheless there's a colossal hole in my heart. I'm wiping the lancet. On the beach deep water whales lay dead, skin cells. The beached whales lay dead, ductwork. Chasing the desideratum. Dead legs and king prawns. Salivating in my mind. Insane all the time. Nine years away from Pluto. Muzzled in my sorrow. Mermaids in rocky oceans toss coins, Billy Hill and Chalino Sanchez. The night makes me wild. The presence lingers in light bulbs, in jam jars, in hourglasses. Sparked matches. The first coat of paint has been applied.

Ecstasy rips through my body. Fervent feelings send me into an oblivion. I go in and out. The article goes in my mouth, pills I swallow down. There's no reason for the bunting in my cell. I'm always up to something in between the silence and the boredom. I am a virgin in paradise, sweet when all eyes are on me. Melting at my core. Tbilisi. Gihon. Eudaimonia. It is my birthright, dying like the sunshine. On a brass steed, peripatetic, I wish I could nerve myself and bear with time. I don't want to play anymore games. Been humdrum for aeons, but I'm digging my way out. Licking my wounds.

The night died from the shell nosecap in his bowels on a ploughed field, in the obtrusive canal. My mind is a bunch of plain atonal sheets bleeding. The moonlight is in my hands. I have never known anything different. In a shallow oblong wooden basket I assemble myself. In mines black with coal. Pushing my fingers deep in the hole. Willows with long flexible shoots. Washed up at the foot of the Clubhouse. I inhale fresh pockets of air. Inhale the crisp smell of a nearby fire on the white landscape. How the years have changed the place and left behind a perfect contradiction from the Strait of Gallipoli to Fountains Abbey. Power plants, lobes, well-oiled joints, bows and arrows.