Mother Mary

What do you all do with your days?

No, seriously
I want to know.

Me, I just seem
to let the minutes fade
& watch as the years run fierce
& true like mercury through
fingers destroyed in the process…

…through such space
& so much time
left to waste.

So
 here I am again
letting the rain
wash over my face…

What do you all do with your days?

Me, I wait
until the sunlight begins to fade
& then,
with alcohol, chemicals & weed
in place of rosary beads,
I begin my sinful prayer,
which goes like this:

“Hail, Mary,
full of grace,
let us talk
& fuck the night away;

because I need
animal reprieve
from the shadows
no eyes can see.”

& mostly she comes
(tho I must admit that,
despite my best efforts,
sometimes she doesn’t)

but Mother Mary
never stays with me.

she is not mine to keep.

She belongs to no one,
& there are lonely demons
haunting her dreams
just as they do to me.

So
I’m gonna smoke
yet another cigarette

alone

outside

in the rain,

& hope that this time
the water will wash me clean.

On the radio…

…De La Soul say:

“The sky takes notes when we speak/
Our capes move with the wind/
Because of the wings beneath”*

but I say:

the Sky does not give a fuck

about what I say or think;

small things

have been performing beneath her

graceful glare for more years than we

dare to imagine.

 

The Sky

does not care what we think.

The Sky

does not care about anything.

The Sky

just is…

 

We expire, conspire,

toil & adventure,

lose, love & live

before her.

 

 

She protects us from the vast

& endless, cold &

unfeeling empty

that surrounds us.

 

We should respect her more

because the Sky

is the nearest thing to a God

that we can ever hope for.

 

* ‘Royalty Capes’ – De La Soul

 

 

Anny says that “there are no more perfect moments”* but on my good days I still refuse to believe her.

There is heavy bliss to this hazy wish
for continuous moment, as we lie
open in a sunlight that slips from halo
to fingertips brushing against
the spider-web delicate surface of your skin.

& there is strange weight that this urge creates;
wanting to steal the scene from time
& climb inside the still-life with you, like
two ancient insects enclosed in amber,
our limbs entangled forever…

…but if this desire for permanence
is just a burning petulance
that stems from the base-thread;
if this tangled nervous-system has found
something greater than itself
only through means of itself,

well, then surely consciousness
is sensuous?

But right now, my love,
I could not give a fuck about such things!

Because right now,
finally!
I feel understood completely, &
right now
awfully
I can feel your pulse race beneath my touch
& I know that one day
it
must

stop.

So, before the world can worm its way
into the space always between us;
before time begins again

I want you to know
that although this moment
was always already gone from us,

this moment,
my love,

this was one of the perfect ones.

amber-africa-trichogrammatid

 

* ‘The Nausea’ – Jean Paul Satre