It is all right
And always has been
And will continue to be so
It is all right
And always has been
And will continue to be so
I tried to store my love for you
In a bottle.
You found it;
Drank it,
And spewed it out all over the place.
When I touch you, you don’t feel afraid. If I kiss you, you kiss me back. We can smile; we can laugh, talk, play. Play for me, dear, play for me. You don’t talk sense; I don’t mind. I lie; you realise; you smile. O, when I touch you, you don’t feel afraid. You are my world and I am yours. For the time we are together at least. I say I love you. You smile, nod. You love me. Or don’t. Are you playing games? I love you.
The service seemed like any other
But I felt uneasy.
I mentioned this to Sarah.
She had the same feeling.
O, there was an uneasy feeling in the church.
Your smile plants a thousand flowers;
You have the seeds, the sweetness, the vision.
I am the soil, the manure, the shit.
I smother you.
You grow.
Your beauty, my nutrients
A beautiful garden make.
tryin’ to remember the first time___________
no, it’s too hard;
memory too tarnished by subsequent failures___________
the jury’s out on this one:
what a waste of fucking time_____________
Yes, but what do you actually do? I mean, now you have your own flat and all that space, what do you actually do?
I look out of the window, or at the wall, depending on the seat I am in (I’ve asked for an easy chair for Christmas). Out of the window I see walls. So I suppose I look at walls. That is what I do.
What do you see?
I’ll tell you what I don’t see: I don’t see walls. I look at them, as I said, but I don’t see them. I see rivers ebbing and flowing and descending into whirlpools; I see never-ending mountain ranges; I see corvids circling and I hear them singing. And more, much more besides.
This is what you see. I ask again: what do you do?
I write. I write at my computer.
I compose letters to newspapers and politicians and global organisations. I enquire about public funds being spent on defence (tanks, guns and training for soldiers). I never save my letters, I never print them and I never send them.
I write historical poetry. I write first person narratives of apprentice stonemasons working on the construction sites of Beaumaris and other Welsh castles. I write romantic exchanges between the kings and queens of Europe. I never keep my poems, and I never share them.
I write fiction. Hour after hour I sit at my desk and write about wealth and poverty, love and loss, and other perennial themes. Needless to say I never save, send, print or share my stories.
Honestly, sometimes it is like trying to teach a ferret to read Latin. Talk is cheap, but you can’t eat a conversation. I am not a vegetarian, nor am I physically disabled. I said I liked disabled people. I have a lot of time for disabled people. “All disabled people?” she asked, “or just those without any ligaments?” She meant limbs, I think. I didn’t know how to answer.
Then it began to snow and her tattoos fell off. I had to cry. The world’s being slaughtered and it’s such a bloody disgrace.
