unposted: Part 2
Things I've been working on, unable to finish properly due to school/travel/work/etc.
It’s difficult to write when you’re thinking.
It’s difficult to write when it’s this and that or white and black and you know it can also be siyah, negro, bianca, claro. Whether they’re some heroes name: Daniel, Ivica; sing their names, voices, cologne in binary instrumentals.
It’s difficult to think when you’re here, there, jetlagged and post-colonial, or not, spat from a new wave of Orientalism with clean edges and dazzling colours, dreaming of women, tits out, perched on relics forcing their wisdom down throats with the full force of the worshipped. When dits and dahs and foreign laws toss you back and again to toe the line between progress and discord.
It’s difficult to think with blood on our hands. Were you born to rule this place, cover your ears in faux blacks, smear other peoples’ names on your face and deny, deny, deny. The yellow helmets, the aluminum siding and rough blue suits crawl to the top of your mind if you’ve not the money to pay them to stay quiet.
It’s a never-ending chime, this incessant drone of a golden-tinged ass. Three voices, one fact, stuck on the loudest tone so the rest can slither under. Keep playing keep yelling keep your threats and boasts chain-linked to your inadequacies.
Keep to yourself, get them out, let me never see them let me never have seen them let me live like the fairies of the fall of the wall, flower and bloom like budding post-Gorbachev vines or invading troops of Tolkienesque willows, until it’s time to crawl from the rubble like fallen trunks covered in moss and grass and growing things.
It’s difficult to see what the you and the me are going to do in this jungle of triumph and tree. Pull through the dregs brush the bugs from our legs let the leashes extend from the banks to the end. Or take them off, let our dogs paw the water and break the lines of small soldiers laid in spattered patterns of duckweed and moss. Lose it, leave it, it’s difficult to think when you’re basking.
Promise we’ll wind our way through land they poisoned to feast on sun and breeze. Blindly over cinderblocks we’ll peek our small heads through the seams on so many buried engineers’ dreams. Let me suffocate the siding with fingers that feel across glass, that dig into new grass, open to this new land of knotweed and hurricane we made for ourselves. Terror, disaster, winter, let it be anything but clawing to the top to creep unsteadily on the voles and weevils, breathing cold air under a cold sun that shines through glass and steel that keep the warmth off our cheeks.
