Te amo ahí contra el muro destruido

Te amo ahí contra el muro destruido
contra la ciudad y contra el sol y contra el viento
contra lo otro que yo amo y se ha quedado
como un guerrero entrampado en los recuerdos

Te amo contra tus ojos que se apagan
y sufren adentro esta superficie vana
y sospechan venganzas
y muertes por desolación o por fastidio

Te amo más allá de puertas y esquinas
de trenes que se han ido sin llevarnos
de amigos que se hundieron ascendiendo
ventanas periódicas y estrellas

Te amo contra tu alegría y tu regreso
contra el dolor que astilla tus seres más amados
contra lo que puede ser y lo que fuiste
ceremonia nocturna por lugares fantásticos

Te amo contra la noche y el verano
contra la luz y tu semejanza silenciosa
contra el mar y septiembre y los labios que te expresan
contra el humo invencible de los muertos.

A Bare Bedroom With Two People.

Twenty and afraid of silences,

I chat mindless babble

when scanning your book-shelves
for clues of you – a comment
for every single one.

I sip rum laced with ginger ale;
we will sit and drink, wait until
one half gives in.

This isn’t when the room stands still,
or when music starts as time stops.

“Do you want another drink?” he asks,
and removes the glass from my hand.

These are those invisible drinking cords
that fasten us together after
a few too many.

I don’t know you that well –
so I sit and talk.

I play with one button on my cardigan
that’s come away, and hangs there
on its thread -

http://applesandsnakes.org/page/84/Performance+poets/462

Spoken word, London style.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

Woolfe

A DAY THAT BROKE UP YOUR MIND while turning the corners of your book of abstract forgiving. It’s fortunate that knowledge can be summed so that it can be regretted in one fell swoop, much like giving undue props to a signal to crashland without warning.

When you are old

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. 

Today I remembered my last day in xela, you offered to take me to the station and I accepted. We went and grabbed a smoothie at our favourite French restaurant, for old times sake. I remember riding down to parque central on your motorbike, the sun beaming, no helmet, feeling safe. I recall freeze framing the moment knowing I’d never get it back. I was present and happy; there had been no past and there would be no future, just that moment. I was free for a second. You were in my arms, looking forward, taking control as I preferred. I was behind embracing you, grounded yet moving, my eyes closed, full of possibility with the wind washing over my face cleaning my soul. 

Ironically having freeze-framed that moment I hadn’t thought about it for a long time; the image of leaving you at the bus stop has always dominated my recollection of that day. It brought a smile to my face today thinking about that moment again.  Now it’s time to focus on more recent happenings.