Monday 2 August 2010

Part II jeunesse...danger in safe ways

she had burned through her lungs the fire of death. ten years and one previous, i had been to that lake. lake of fire of the devil. i knew after one year i was on the take. taken. all my lifeblood discolored. all i held dear to my heart? forsaken. for some little snow white who captivated me. then when she transformed, it was all about the fight. the right to survive. the fight to stay alive. the desire to die, without her i knew...and in these new eyes across this halfway house hall, from the carpets on the floor, over the couches tumbled, then jumped off the wall to flip backward in time together, because you sometimes dont know you gotta relive your life, to stay alive & live on.

do the math. my five eleven to her five seven, but add a half inch to hers and 2 inch heels, drop us negligible metric measure, diametrically facing one another and already sure this would be never sure but hints came ever dilute through the radiant channel. focused at our best, we moved to planes unknown to both of us. impressive like thousand foot walls of granite, dripping water so lovingly to the soil below, damn it! so wonderful you cannot imagine. beauty above most below cannot fathom.

the telling of it as it happened to us, we tried. no wild imagination configured how fucking sweet this could be. no sucking lie could promise as much. promise is like putting up with vulnerability, what you have left of rusted cesspool trust. like that salty place where the living ocean never met the dead sea. the scrolls had to be written, but then lost, you see. the water flooded them, they soaked the paper. the trees need no ink. no verse to measure. our eyes withstood the weather... our hearts brewed tornados. in oil she taught me to dip the bread. this was juicy like tomatoes.

the rings we exchanged in not a week and some change. now wasnt it strange? strange was the way, danger we fronted directly in plain overcoming and in safe ways discovered, sometimes just outdoors, other times required cunning. lemon peeled and orange aura feelings. had me kneeling. had her kneeling. amidst wheeling, amidst dealing. using. stealing. A bitter cruel place like dickens london was for boys. attrition of black lung and chimney sweeping kind of noise.

what do i remember, what will memory offer me? you know sometimes it just gets sucked up the vortex like the life right up the tree, the water i mean, so long as its recycled and like laundry its circling, its rolling, its falling into itself. sometimes grasping. sometimes holding. sometimes spilling out all over the place. door wide open and on the cold cement floor unfolded. getting cold there. giving up its warmth. collective no longer. individually seen there. up under. you scoop it in your arms. you know this shirt, this matching bottom. the one missing buttons on the collar. pulled off by him. or by her. or by yourself in the fearful moments. the anxious ones that used to be so far between. infrequent panic attack scene. she knew of this like i did. together she gave me deeper understanding. like panic was not about the moment whatsoever. no. panic was like the end of your forever. mine i mean. like my experience was concluded. violent like the guillotine, the fall of the blade. who could have invented such a horrifying cascade of sharpened pure evil? probably a religion bent on survival. having forgotten the similarities, and focused on the differences. or focused on the blindness of one of five conscious senses?

not here. not now. not this anymore. subtle sense relation and sensation came over the scene. between her, between me, putting energy on bones so so lonely and lean. lean on me and lean on you. what we both needed. what for both of us was true. following every day a new and fascinating clue. 

she would learn im a Huguenot. French by nature, thank you. we fell under the blade, some of us. we exodus made, some of us. to other lands. out of the heated sun of religion. into shade. to anything less cruel than bad mad bludgeoning. and She knew a similar kind of exodus, the one she was making, or trying so with all her heart. to her i saw, the desert sands would be like paradise. singing sand through your teeth, as each mirage fades away. still you are free of the murderous bastards. the ones whose spirits burned up long ago. they live and survive on chasing an echo of an epoch long ago.

so she and i knew suffering alike. and yet she smiled so nicely, and had gripped the open mic. she had loved so truly, a tragic love that haunted her. her redemption in the telling of the love that swamped her. i had mine too, ten years gone but still true to tell, and post traumatically fallen, across our heads and vertically down our tears now fell. i watched hers melt into my cottons. there was something here i must go home with, not like all the rest i chose and forgotten.

what was this? what was it NOT? this our very placement, our lot. lucky 7 lottery drawn. cared for and home grown, kept in the pocket hidden, sewn.  she i took knees to. to listen to her unfolding story. the pain, the courage, the personal morning glories. horizontal at dusk. mysterious spoken lust. a jeunesse of forming trust. why did i stop everything and drop down for her? because! i must!

await part III

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