When the flowers close up within themselves,
And only inside one’s mind can one find any
Color – when the whole world hushes itself
Into a charnel ground, and only in the flickering
Tempests of your imagination can the thunder
Of life be savoured
When all has been reduced to rubble –
Every concert hall despoiled to silence;
When the only music left playing is a
Quiet nocturne by Chopin; the swan
Song of a piano, about to fall off the
Edge of the world
When all molluscs and crustaceans return
To their shells; and even hearts turn themselves
Inside out to try and find a warm place to burrow.
When the lungs of the world collapse,
And the seas lick their lips over the ruins
Of train tracks.
When that immutable ‘WHEN’ withdraws
Inside its own thunder, and things come
To pass exactly as they were hoped
When the last chord, of the last song,
Is played, but never quite dies away,
And the warm safety of resolution
Is held in eternal tension – a tension
That never lets up, perching on an
Impossible tomorrow, that, every
Minute, becomes more
When all of these things come to pass,
I will have lived through them more
Times than they ever flourished.
And the tension of bow string
Against violin, will never quite
Then, my tension will no longer be
The pain of waiting; my pain will
Have soldered itself into different
Forms; my waiting will have
Transformed into Waiting’s Long
Lost Brother – the one who returned
A week ago, and is back living with
No – I will tell you about my kind of
Waiting – the suspense of a kiss a
Thousand years in the making – that
Senseless suspense that sits on the axis,
Unfinished – all those pale victories
You never know if you’ll quite accomplish.
But, it will be accomplished. Though I
Sit in this pool of erosion, and build
Up mansions from the bones of corral;
Though The Great Barrier Reef still
Gets caught in my teeth, and I can
No longer tell sky from sand – it
Will be accomplished
I will not let myself down.
Yet, there is still that suspense:
That fear of touching what has
Never been touched – of plucking
A string that has never been plucked;
Of hearing a chord, that, until you’ve
Heard it, you can’t be certain won’t
Have the power to destroy you.
But, when has the potential of destruction
Ever lured me from the danger of my dreams?
I am too in love with destruction; I have too
Much adoration of all that can assure me
That things will never be the same.
For that is my greatest fear:
The horror of the familiar.
So I look on the world with
A new mind each day,
Killing and reviving in