outsideinroads

Life games, music, magic and all the rest. Adventures of the fringe of the fringe amongst the.. "People's Republic of Brighton and Hove"


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Shadow Play

 

In the patterns did you meet

such a character? As

to lead you by the hand

around mazes,

legs swinging on the goal post

like, casual, motorworld

a new life in

America. Dust. Did you as a child

ever speak to starlings,

drown your soulsake

in poisons – dreaming of pains,

rid of the world?

Did you sink in quicksand,

surrounded by tapes and

rattlesnakes? Walk the

corners of continents in the

gravel at the edges of the little cage?

 

Are you made of stardust? A community

of entities, who speak to you in dreams

and keep the transit of your gut

for their own reasons.

 

Who is the magician who makes the grass green?

An ocean in a drop, a whole ocean

of fish and ribbon worms,

of whales, of the dead,

of water beneath the water

beneath the water,

of dark edges for

miles and miles

of empty space. He

 

told me he knows you too. I don’t suppose that

story “matters”. I’ve heard lots of

stories: I heard I was a part of a poet,

sitting on a part of a port

fearing all of home and all of travels,

never making it to the other

side – however many

times sat on the ferry

cross the Mersey. Greedy, badly

kept in almost every manner, childlike, drunk and

tedious – but dreaming,

always yearning. I heard I was a star

walker, always lightfooted

and able to create light from rainbows –

a perfect shimmer on a pretend lake, heard I was a heavy

rock, a mouse in a hole, a scampering

semi lizard, a bright flash sacrifice for…

I heard I never existed at all.

 

Stories work as foils for process. Let’s not give up on them just yet. But, dearest, remember what they are (or may be):

 

Shadow plays in a sea of love,

rolling stones gathering moss,

ornamental mazes in the grounds of their houses,

liminal hands on the shoulder,

voices whispered from a make believe beyond.

 

 

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