no longer (2gether,) a little bit wild
David Clark
no longer (2gether,) a little bit wild
before you, I lie
recalling an innocence
warmth, my hands bleeding
truth.
A stale sunshine stretches seasons.
The smell of aged pollen –
beautiful yet allergic.
Now:
days, months, years
our collective innocence
lingers bottomless
not unlike a maudlin afternoon. Alone, uncontrollably
free.
Her sentimental breath breaks
reminiscing her бабушка’s meal.
she gallops towards the past
and roaring, the crack under her
deafening cries like a juvenile yearning. Whilst
I comely afloat my childhood raft, drifting
towards my Nonna’s worn house. These
anonymous wastelands.
Now,
days, months, years
our collective innocence
lingers longer. Paradoxical days: shortness
and length, subtitles to a foreign film. Yesterday,
looming clouds of dark obscurity,
the allergic season, I was learning
goodbye:
after all, an enduring summer love
ending yesterday.
*бабушка is Russian for grandmother
illusion
a mind’s silence echoed
a mountain silhouette reduced to its outline
an experience of time,
seen before:
unfamiliar and murky
an incomprehensible dream.
a grotesque picture
among the whiteness of the clouds.
blurs birth’s forgotten artifacts
anew like a mother’s womb.
(19 years have passed,
does it have to be miserable… things seem to be…what if could be?
with the strength of an emerald
blackness overcomes everything
disregarding the past)
awoke to an aged alienation,
the room’s uncleanliness creating clarity:
colours negate whiteness
a gift more gorgeous than the purity of angels.
From fear of whiteness,
i have chosen obscurity,
stillness of the moment, freezes
even its sincerest admirers.
Love as if it were a flower
A familiar flower set against wondrous worlds
arriving,
appearing,
like a cloud out of smoke. Hush,
my love, my beloved,
smell of richly scented perfume
of budding lilies. Splash,
a tiny drip of wine staining, a
temporary mark.
A roaring pitter-patter
welcomes somber autumn, leaving
until the first flower of next.
I Associate
I associate life with death,
Roosters with dawn, crows with night.
The things I know to be true.
I associate cities with scenery,
With growth, with humanity.
The things I know to be deceiving.
I associate mothers with rules
with meagreness, with childhood.
The things I wish I could forget.
I associate fathers with strength,
With chaos, with maturity.
The things I wish I wouldn’t be.
I associate me with darkness,
With roots, with owls.
The things I wish I wouldn’t be.
I associate you with me,
The thing I wish.
Sweetness. Or so I thought.
Crashing darkness removes honey from lips,
Though it hangs on like a past lover.
Drifting, drifting, drifting: apart
A pearl yellow space; the doesn’t exist.
Stillness surrounded by a bustling void
Tiny trees, roaming rats, wilted flowers.
It lingers like a past lover.
Stillness dissolves, setting
Into the crashing darkness.
