mine

Some artifacts of culture age more deeply, as if they have been more greedily felt. “A wonderful world” feels like it’s a thoroughly cracked piece. Roman statue without arms nor the paint. Sort of sad for most, but impressive for connoisseurs. (Did you know…?”, goes the coffee table talk) and there’s quite a few of those people left. People, for whom a day is as special as a birthday. The individual aspect in the generational. What’s a day to celebrate love, in this most fragmented of times? When I don’t really know my mum and dad (did they hear that song when it was doing it’s first rounds in the tube radios, did they kiss in an Alfa Romeo convertible, in “A Wonderful World”, and did they even know during that moment that they were There … ); I can think this but I am not them. “Do you know what day is today…”, says the world and I feel that I can’t know that much. I don’t really know much about a single day, except the cherishing is done, needs to be done, in every single one. How everything is filled up to an outpouring with our sentiment. How we actually love so much that we don’t know what to do with it all, so we need a special day to put the rest in. A different kind of brightness to differentiate it from the rest. So bright! How we love so much, and so little at the same time. And the smallness can’t be exactly quantified either, just the pieces. How can I really count the last month, the seconds, the days? To take every lovely grain of feeling and put it in a bottle. No, those are like seeds; they are not taken back. Something will come out of this need to touch you; something else than simple failure or success. Like a small patch of flowers. A vanishing, glowing thing. Something that doesn’t need to be remembered exactly, though some sign of it will be; (”the wonderful world”, the statue, the photographs, poems). In the outpouring, the excess and the lack: enough of life, almost invisible.

How long I’ve suffered for this privilege, battling every day the clay I shape into my likeness, despite best efforts - every unsuccessful attempt to be better, we cry, never over this grave I dig, too big this bed to lie in, stiff and cramped with love, too small all the wishes wasted on myself, worthless when all this trying is too trying and I am ground down, dirt under foot, red with heart beaten bloody every time those eyes meet mine and I cannot hold it for all the space in the universe is not enough to show how insignificant I feel after the words fall into the silence then those hands grasp for mine and I cannot hold it for all the strength in this body is not enough – oh, how I suffer for this privilege, every day

Charcoal eyes Dipped in red Chocolate flesh Melting on my lips Who made the night Who hung the stars They were all aligned            In a lovely form Temptress whispers In fashion and force Made their entrance With passion adorned Charcoal eyes    Mesmerized The way her dress   Had hypnotized… I         dyed                    in                         red And I cried for more Who made the night Who hung the stars How       could                 my                         dream                     Be yours

Just keep writing. I believe in you.

Because too much of what  you think is a good thing can be a little overwhelming.