what moves you

she sat

on the ledge

smoking a cigar

thinking of a picture

of a teardrop in the sun

it was neither day nor night

that it is to say it was evening

not early morning not her hour

and the cat could feel the moist tip of all her electric fur bristling and bubbling with a hot eclair

the cat that lay curled up warm in a satin pillow inert respiring enjoying sensations honey and cream

she let a leg drop on the naked side of the wall and rubbed her heel against the mossy side gently 

indulging the itch not hurrying it into the deep cut which in time it would take and the wall would

bear a mark where unmindful 

of the chafing she had escaped 

into prisms and was working up 

and down her rainbow

the rhythm of her sole's 

brushing the damp brick

essential to keep the beat

while she swayed
to a song of forgetfulness

it is true
we all want
to apply the same
lotion day and night
this one the only one
to unguard and unprotect
itching in a straitjacket
this one unbound undressed
it is true we all want
to be in one piece of cloth
only tied to the bed
christs in cushions
quaking and consumed
in intense bouts of passion
it is true this lotion is true
ageless the most revelatory of secrets
and cathartic to its utmost naked
among animals it is vulture
in fruits it is apple
among elements it is the seed
the secret of the heartbeat
in a drop of seaweed
the unmade essence of making
the salve of the burn
is plenty in the field
the free yards of vast golden
and where the children run naked
throw those parks open
let a moist wind gently
bury in dead leaf
all infernal walls
lets light one big fire
and dance around it
like children of the gutters

if anything is worth writing about it is pain and suffering and how for better or for worse our lives are shaped by the constant struggle of attitudes to despondence and desultoriness. and to write about the struggle itself as if it was matter of fact for it certainly is unremarkable. the only thing heroic about it is the silence. for to express anything but calm in the face of adversity amounts to some kind of petulance. and so i arrive at an overwhelming truth, of life as petulance. a constant nagging for some sort of comfort, some relief and some acknowledgement of our entitlement to all that; without a worry for peace for that has been promised us regardless. peace is irrational. why in life seek the stillness which death has reserved for us. why not be shaken up, be exhausted by living that we may collapse, break-down, cut loose to feel alive. and in between if one can remember what one has seen as each pageant winds up then one can use the blank, morbid hours, when all there is to distract you is you or the past or the gray future, to squeeze out these recollections through the funnel of desolation to get at the quicksilver essence of wanting to live and not being able to live without wanting. nor either to want one thing and keep wanting it. havent we all some time wanted to die. but you are alive.

i see blue flowers
in a green bed
outside a beautiful house
but i am a ghost
i cannot come home
i do not go back home
i know not where home is
a castaway soul i roam
i hang on
till i come by a familiar
road in the early morning dawn
and by your gate see
blue flowers smiling at me

then i enter and die
bury me in the green bed
you water with so much love