We were in Morecombe by a lighthouse when the sky looked like Starry Night Over the Rhone. Lightning bolted the sea out west and we considered how many fish died for every hit and just why it happened anyway. We thought lightning had to hit the ground, or at least have some sort of channelling conduit. But then, I guess, we said, each to the other, that water did that. Wind made leaves dance erratically. They tugged towards air from their branches and then turning a tornado began to suck at the sea. The water rose, the sun left the sky and in the distance an accordion began its jaunty wheeze. We died. There was fear followed by calm.
Somewhere outside of time in a garden in the future I was bleeding. We hid under a slate roof. Towards St Paul’s Cathedral artillery guns shook the city. Massive helicopters resembled oversized wasps. You were there, keeping me sane. A man appeared dressed in old clothes, holding a pocket watch. He gave us two vials of gold liquid. He told us to go back in time and fix it. We said how do we know how to change it? He said you won’t but it’s worth a go. We looked right down into the brain of each other and kissed. You tasted like burnt toast. The world shifted and we were running through an abandoned street somewhere in Manchester. There were riots and people were chucking makeshift Molotov cocktails through windows and somehow the bottles didn’t smash on contact. Instead they passed through the windows, small entrances, and made fire like opening roses. We jumped in a shell of a car with a mattress in it, like those novelty bed frames you used to get in Argos. Someone to my left, a naked boy with glasses, said that this was an orbital. A way of travelling, not through time or conventional space. Instead the world tilted around you, moved the destination to you instead of the other way round.
III. A Cat
The dream fast forwarded. I lay in bed with a ginger spotted egg on my bedside table. It cracked and there was a small ginger cat inside. I blinked and the cat had human legs and arms and a body. Then the cat had a human head and purred. Then the cat was my friend Grace and she opened her mouth with her hands and showed me her mandible-divided sets of teeth. All four of them. We went off into the jungle of the city in search of people to make friends with.
The final part was in the future. All Bladerunner and Fifth Element. I chased a woman dressed in latex and PVC and a fluorescent pink wig. She called me Johnny and winked at me and waved a police baton as fourteen jet planes flew overhead and the neon buildings glowed through the smog. We fucked against a window in the subway. Two men watched and afterwards they gave us money.
This is my 200th post since starting the website on Valentines Day 2010. Woo.
I went to Word Soup last night in Preston, it was their 1st birthday! All grown up. Anyway I heard a lot of good poetry and it was a lovely venue. I was on the open mic and did For Dicks and Linguistic Approaches to Love. Here’s the latter, you’ve all heard For Dicks enough by now I’m sure. Video recorded by Norman Hadley.
Linguistic Approaches to Love
I could reminisce about the sibilance in your uncertain sounds
the fricatives of your fucks, the vowels in your moans.
Could dot-to-dot the consonants that construct your
harsh-angry-hate and make of them a petal, bloomed.
Could take the condemnations, the indignations
dissolve them into sheer potential of hope.
I could reword your sentences, edit your paragraphs
recast you as a whole different character to the world.
Could take your adjectives away until you’re forgiven
for all the words you played with.
Could crush all the verbs into letters with no meaning
till we’re left with no substance - too.
Just people trapped in the present with no action
gaining no traction, just stagnant and blue.
It’s the beauty of love,
that we’d do anything for you.
[October - the ‘sex’ month.]
We christen every room with impressions
the curve of our backs, the stick of saliva dabbing our necks;
Da Vinci’s got nothing on the way we paint with our hands
the picture of love. (I didn’t just say that word.)
We exchange and engage in senses that don’t even exist,
not just touch and taste, smell, feel, sight, but deeper than that.
I know the angles of bisection that make you like me more
places where you’re uncontrollable; demands, the requirements,
pressures, the pretexts, I know the contexts of your excitement.
What makes you sweat, makes you laugh,
I know what makes you want to lick me, there.
I am the cartographer of your body: spine, the Pennines;
bum, Ayer’s rock. I have traversed the gorge
between your shoulder blades.
Your eyes are the Great Lakes; nose, a snub of moon rock,
I have walked through the forests of your legs.
Watch, as I draw you in words.
- M. R. Wallis