Baldwin

Today is a wedding ceremony. A marriage of possibilities. My cousin has exchanged vows and time will study and tell what it has seen, heard and known under God. Black life like black bodies have long been a surrealistic feast for the voyeuristic eyes of fetishists and fantasists. Joseph Conrad could not open his eyes even behind the safety of his pen, to straddle his imaginative reconstructions of the monolithic burden bearers in the heart of darkness situated in the continent of his mind’s perception.

Baldwin generously invested the deformed and fragmented faces of exotica with the unusual idea that they were worthy of being depicted as fully human, even in a foreign land. The continent is not a country. And a country in this context is not a geographical destination. The poetry of Baldwin is not merely the words sentenced to a page but rather the lives affirmed by his words dancing to the tune past the margins of hate and redeemed by love. In his writings love is the great pacifier even when it sets fire to our expectations and challenges our notions of who is worthy of grace, and the horrors that transgress the invisible inhabitants who are generational custodians of a manifested multifaceted curse with wings.

Barry Jenkins painted the poetry of James Baldwin beautifully in ‘If Beale Street Cold Talk’. Next week lovers around the world will serenade each other with cards, gifts and kisses flavoured with wine and chocolates. Babies will be conceived. Lies will be ever more creative. Truths with be earnest and unsparing. Death will still be in business. Card or no card. Life will go on. Love in its bittersweetness covers the multitude and will endure the fall out. A torn page is the pity that a chapter can afford to lose.

“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word “love” here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace – not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.”

– James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

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Wettest Eye

Wettest eye watering skinned brother on the inside, arachnid crawling out, side eyed, hunger bites the heart of fear, and the killer, mother knows best, knows not the fright that drives him to stomp small creatures and their secrets, like vaporous confessions that rise up with death.

Smoke city. A body burns, like nations, like bodies burning nations. Iraq hid in flames of refutation.

Web swinger, entrapped in the ganda, hung to dry on the rope that pulled him up to the measure of Spider men, climbed into company love of misery and a tail wagged for the milk of magnesia and human kindness, as mythical as the love that murders with good intentions to broadcast.

Charity. Just spare me the charity of words like the vain in life who speak of the ignoble dead, fishing in blood rivers. Dead as purpose of Pompey. Restless in peace.

Patriots

Patriots are foreigners too. Like poets. Dead ones seem to outlive the living. Their words are the ideas that dreamers cling on to for a fictive future.

The living are dreamers at dawn. Walking on corn toes. Curved. Running the zig zag. They are pragmatic with crayons. And they laugh loud and unclear like the noise they speak.

Home is where the heart is heavy. If you cut through the chatter and chit it’s all bullsweat. Now if you knew where to bury the living, I’d hand you a shovel. No words. No songs. No honour to purchase.

They’ve got that one day exclusive on offer. Get your love at half the pain. All foreign currencies accepted. Faces are guilty but eyes are blameless.

Only Fools And Horses

Where is your gravestone? They ask. Double chin up, but you ran out of time slowly. Dragged your bones forwards for your bastards to pick at the choices. Sounds right. She loved you dearly. Nearly. Had you. Hindsight. Beloved burden, clearly marked for some kind of purpose if not a living born outside of life.
Light hearted but the older the lie, the harder the trust bites the lack of. Dearly beheaded, buttered up the heart with sayings and cholesterol calamitous promises. Words stray further that the eyes can see. I can see further than the stray. But I can’t feel that way west or some south eastern mystery that dies with us in a fry up. Did we learn well? How long the tarry, and how merry the folly. Only fools and Horses, and the company of the dead who bury their own.

 

Forged

Hamburger aroma of weed smoke arising, latching onto hipster attire, Engineer’s banter louder than boom bap mutations, mute DJ slaying the Latin, cap on forward, sideways glancer catching a vibe, luscious lady, copper smooth, eyes find mine in hers, stepping out my mind to mingle with hers, just a sec or two, not a game, mature as you and I tonight, wrinkled and frank, digesting the jest, next questions begat more doubts than assurances, grown folks are childhood inventions, nurtured natures and fallen angels run the roost, while tall babies wag tails with tales, I’m talking and listening, I’m watching and fiddling with your thoughts and my attention spans the expanse of your face, the crevices, the creaky foot path across your mind and mine, gapping the bridge when I’d rather be inside of you, twister sister, mind over mister, feline recline, I’ve got you forged onto me.

 

 

Something To Remember

Coming at your side like sweet nothings I’m in your ear hiding what I thought were feet at the ready for dancing when I felt it move like I once remembered.

Heart’s a rolling stone but love is quite a mover and she rocked us back and down, higher down, the way we pushed up on that wall of time, crushing a moment we were gifted.

 

Sky

Is it the sky that colours the thought that my eyes speak when you look into me? I didn’t try to hide your questions in there. We just got stuck on the tangled high wire of hearts we dared to cross on foot. No fear. Just fools. Just us.

I wore your favourite smile today. It only cost me a tear before the train arrived to put me back on track. Love races the many miles of memories behind a kiss. I had hoped to return it to her sacred place. Sometimes we hold on too long and awake to find that the dream does not always follow us into the morning. And yet the Sky remains as young and dear to me as that devil in green. Or was it blue? And I as old as the grey bearded child I always was.

 

 

Always

Always

Soaked in mystery

Always

Loved by the Sun

Always

Kissing the wind that swerves

But never bolts

Always

Living for the ride

Always

Dying to be touched

Always

Crying to know more

Always

Reading the silence behind the words

Always

Dancing with your eyes that stir up Trouble’s waves

A love that beheaded the cyclops and the serpent

Always

Whisperings that climb the giving trees and nest where hearts are a flutter

Always desire

And must we seek it

Always

The hard floor of contemplation

A temporary port that harbours dreams of the impatient night

Low tides on the horizon

Always

New lines of order

We tip toe on reason with guilty feet

Tango of terrors

We marvel at what we are and never could be

Longings and latitudes

Always the drift

Always so near to our distance

Always

Hungry for a life with no name

Numbered and numb

Always

Awaiting

Always

For time to dance with chance

 

 

Calella

20170630_121244.jpgCalella leaning, tilting for tips, toes standing up for the streets, with bended hearts so hip to hope. Don’t stain the carpet when you cushion the fall. Don’t rumble young man, and don’t call the law. Don’t scratch the considerate air that carried your balls higher than the crawling Spiders you fear, and the Tuesday flings that booted you out on the curb of slithering desires, bouncing your love into a glass of shampain. Who’d be a patriot for all the basket cases and fresh faced beauties bolted to sleep in their bubbles of pantomime glee. I got you.

 

 

Creases

Ruffled and relaxed mind surfing on stress, caught a wave before his shirt was pressed, pumped iron the night before last, caught eyes before we digressed into nostalgia, a storied face found burried in her chest, smiles couldn’t hide it, the calm before the raging storm, he didn’t have to force it, the rough behind the painted veil.