My soul is strange. It’s tender and tired, like an old Welsh song. Yet it’s also so hateful, like a spurned lover left dangling in the wind. Like a discarded rag, caught on a branch of some broken tree. The scent of her room, still so fresh after all this time. Dust and memory. So natural, that’s how she was. As natural as the rain. Pissing down on a Sunday afternoon in the serene months of summer. Everything green, flowering like drunken dreams. Crescent moons and the curves of her breasts. All woman, no ghosts to be found upon her tongue. Eyes gazing, fingers searching for a warmth so wholesome. The warmth of a good soul. In a landscape of witches and lanterns, sometimes a lover comes creeping unaware. They take you by surprise, their beauty bewildering. Just like being, so strange and obscure. Autumn breeze. Ocean waves and thighs. The way her fingers linked with yours upon the shore. Photographs of the sea. Two lovers, smiling with nothing to hide as the waves called you home.
Walking around the quarry, tears form in the corners of my eyes. Mixing with sweat, my heart flutters as beauty overpowers me. Against the ugliness, it shines like her smile. There’s so many things to get down about, but with the sun bathing me in glory and the fields of corn by my side, you can’t help but smile at it all. The sacred wonders of life, ignored by so many. Those who concern themselves with the mundane. The horrifying drudgery of modern ways of living, suffocating and dulling like a thousand lost memories. Nothing bores me more. Give me nature. Give me stardust and fantasy, dancing like blades of grass in the wind. Give me the music of a storm, crashing over me in the skies above. Paintings of lovers, of flowers in full bloom. Falling snow upon angel hair, soft and fresh like the belly that moves against mine on bedsheets the colour of lust. Passionate and free. Shooting stars in the climax between us. Chemicals and lullabies, passing between quickened hearts. Drunk on romance, and the taste of each others mouths.
Everything is stained with love. Invisible kisses, blinking eyes grazing the flesh of bare chests. Birds sing, flying through gardens and parks where children play with no sense of alarm. No reason to be scared, just breathe in and rest your weary head. A little music, Elliott Smith perhaps. Drink a beer, and sing along to the words of a dead man. Read Leviticus, or maybe some Henry Miller. Look at old photographs, and smile at the beauty on show. All those moments, a perfect stillness so true. You can see it in our eyes, and the way we laughed so easily. Fall asleep, succumbe to dreams. Push me downstream to places I’ll never know. Faces and buildings, melting like ice cream.
If this is a man, they say. A sculpture of perfection, lessened against transition. Pale faced, defined by illness. Rendered dumb by imagery. Muted daydreams, hopelessly killing time. Cracked mirrors, circles of virtue. Marked null and void, destroyed with words misspelled. Deliberate sequences, wide-eyed emptiness. A neck covered with a nights worth of drunken kisses. Blissful signatures, a vision of submerged desire. Fragments of epiphany, lost in the rain. All those sepia days, comforting like a warm embrace. Treading on the thin ice of life, take her by the hand and show her the door to your hidden self. She is the key, to all horizons. The way she hushes so carefully. Sweet girl, so tenderly, tenderly fine.