Friday, 13 January 2012

Le prix d'Amour, c'est seulement Amour

Just as beautifully as I find it
I shall lay out my heart
in its fragments-jigsaw puzzles,
hoping to reconstruct
and in it finding, New York City,
a city I had never been to-

Bombay,
the city where I learnt to dream
and also where I built
a funeral pyre for my dreams
puked beer
smoked in my hotel room
as I watched a blue green sea

And London,
where I lost myself
found a father in a stranger
saw my friends in love,
where a man held me
against his heart
whispering no promises
where I began a novel
which I was not meant to write.

And in the mythical contours of
my fevered imagination
lie other cities
Paris, Cairo, Amsterdam,
Roma
Buenos Aires
Cities I may never see.

Paris,
just across the channel,
shall we not always have Paris? I
who can weave words
and melodies
out of thin air
I
with
dyed red hair
and patience wearing thin
Shall I never know
Paris?

And all I recall

Not the blue green
of my vanished adolescent sea
Not the provincial
education
that I tried so hard
to escape
Nor the endless cheap
smokes, and the
over-boiled milky tea.

And all I recall

the first time he smiled
at me,
and his slightly sweating
hand. We talked
about ethics,
and peanuts,
but contours fade not,
though horizons dim.

But even that's not
what I should remember.
Perhaps the hashish
which made me smile
and drift
away into other
counterfactual worlds.
Perhaps not.

Mid-2006. Drizzling rain. A
cigarette and coffee
and a few lavish, too easily shed
tears on a page
of ...Matthew Arnold?
Because he spelled
Margaret wrong.
Because he called her
Marguerite. By making her
French.

For the greatest French man
of all time,
Camus-he said-
that to love is to give
everything away
and to expect
nothing
nothing at all
in return.


Hot tears burn
my eyelids,
Cities
matter no more,
what good are cities
without expectations?
And because
I have never learnt
not to expect,
I have never loved.

Tuesday, 3 January 2012

g'nite

I'm just so tired. If things go wrong, Morpheus will show me the way.

But contemplating this just makes me more tired. I don't approve of drugs. I don't approve of death, clinical or spiritual.

Yet, this poverty is draining me. And I feel so old. The lonely, only, ugly nights-spent with faceless and nameless strangers in duffel coats, smoking cigarettes outside seedy nightclubs. No, I don't have a spare fag.

Regrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. And now I have fewer fags.

I'm sorry for being so tired. If things get better, I'll send you a postcard. I'll sign it off with love.

Morpheus? He came by earlier this evening, I wasn't at home. He left his card with a hastily scribbled note. I'm supposed to call him when I'm free.

Goodnight and goodluck.