Wednesday, 11 January 2012


long before the feet did
it was my eyes who left, my heart
sore and wet, shiny like a full moon in the sea, moist like fog
and just as impenetrable.

i kept a steady pace, over the mountain tops,
beyond the rocky crown of homeland
searching for the marching beat, scanning my changing horizon for a spiritual parent, a poet, a revolutionary

and finding allsorts, more often
scoring a fuck than salvation

but learning to apprehend something
from everything,
that a teacher can wear as little as a cockring
or all the world’s phd’s wrapped around his or her humanism
till his or her humanity’s been covered
deflected, surpassed in the name of curricular
                                                                        & dispensed.

long before my feet did,
it was my joy, who parted ways
to save itself and find a buddy
in someone else’s despairing fits of life disguised as pubescent rage
dance along creaking floorboards through the night
along the po, canals, the thames,
the yarra hand in hand
to comprehend in steps the mysterious waltz of friendship,
the spinning polkas of love at first sight in a drunken bar, dark in an alley, soho square
dover house - our unglorious chelsea hotel,

our dips and troughs, and our

flops, even they were flux, flight, flow.

sure enough, for coherence dictates our every move,
limbs were set into motion,
rather a gentle marathon – swift feet carried away,
as if a new order of church bells – appealing, these ones, redemptive
were summoning us,
as if our own will was sirens in the distance, their song persuading us now
as before it’d charmed and teased.

& lured i was – with you,
suddenly: communion, a partnership.

and if the rest is history
as in a story we write black on white, sweat on forehead, man on man
if it is true that our bodies bear the marks of each caress and kiss
like an ariadne’s thread leading us back
to our freedom of choice, the choice to chose love every time
we had a choice

i have no/thing to regret
you have no/thing to forget
we’re on the right track
the only path where value is still valued
where the market is a place we go to, to feed body and soul
and not a poisoned cornucopia
of dislodged ciphers, the evil of goods unhinged from reality: the reality of people struggling for human recognition

the reality where the square is not what we are commanded to think within and vacate when thought steps out of it
but the ancient gathering space to which we add dimensions of solidarity,
that the poor enrich
where poetics equates praxis
where word equals sword and
blood is never spilled for anything less than
an idea of freedom that would put the angels to shame in their pale,
sickly promise of transcendence

because long before we stuffed our heads with slogans
we had mouths full of poetry
before the prism split us into rainbow
to separate the colours
red from green, black from blue, me, not you
before power was a spell to be under or atop
we were sun, thunder, dirt and crop.

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