Summer Dolphin

A clay that is no longer my clay and taken away from me and passed to someone elses hands. Someone else smoothed away paradise for me within their hands and within five minutes and thought it was help that had fell out of heaven for me .

Summer 1989, a boy did me a favour. A Summer Dolphin as blue as the sea sits in front of us. I'm saved again but is this a help or a hindrance that has been made with someone elses hand?

My brain is indebted to this help and trapped in it. Oppressions are riddled with ambiguities and I'm always saved by the thing that is slowly killing me by the summer Dolphin swimming through my heart.

Faith.

Your skin fell off in the middle of the night. Like overly worn out pyjamas they just fell off. You had no flimsy thin skin of deceit to cover you up anymore. I could have helped but I left you there naked with no defence. Your thoughts burst forward so often in your head that you could no longer digest them anymore. All your ideas would roll back upon each other and your dreams would somehow not discard them.

I tried to make my own landscape for you in time. Mark out a geographical space where we could sleep; a peaceful cubbyhole away from the staring eyes of reality. In a house of wood or a house of brick or a house of straw or the remotest wood your emotions made your skin feel like an old coat. I cut out snippets of seconds and minutes and hours and cellotaped them together and we made a tapestry of time together that involved picnics and piss-ups and hangovers and marriages and upsets and fall outs. The more reality cast down sunshine and snow the more you became aware there was no hiding place. I couldn't’t provide it. We are in the second century of our love now. Faith for old dead men is starting to wear thin. Who are you going to replace it with now; Old dead Women, People and things and ideas that have nothing to do but get you through? Are you going to by accident one day crawl into your old forest of delusions and find a reality of freedom with its worms or crawl backwards looking for picturesque dictators who will kill you?

.

Glass Puzzle.

Our morality and our passion was broken glass we spent our days trying to knit back together. As we rearranged it in a numerous number of ways with blood on our fingers we occasionally caught sight of who we thought we were in our temporary reflection. We didn’t know if it was us who we saw staring back at us in our disjointed glass puzzle or reflections or an error of desire.

All our idolatries have packed their bags and left this morning. Is the sympathy of tears and reciprocal recognition of each other’s bad times all we have left now? In the glass puzzle of your voice, of your tone, of your words, of your passions stencilled on your emotions I see the conjoined heaven and hell of everything you are and can’t be. The cracks between the glass are both the joins and the gaps between the promise and the jovial screams against your own reality and I don’t mind at all.