if like you should sink down, beneath, I'll swim down.

.testimonies

Surely
there's something you're leaving out?
To save the blushes, save the social boundary-crossing, save the best to the quiet times, save the moment when the [deepbreath] room goes dead, for seconds, for pulsebeats, and you fold, over the precipice (too late now, can't go back, words overflow) and it's said, and the latent electricity's still in the air.

Fine. I'm ok with that. There's a reason, but I paid attention in 1st term - there's also an argument.

It goes like this, and it comes from within; and as yet, tried, tested and fully socially acceptable it ain't.


.jam and chocolate toastie

it's that very bit; the centre; when it's about that; the typology-resistant type; the isolated there in the darkness moment. It's ok with me if that's the bit you share with no-one but yourself and, let's say, significant other.

But you gotta share it somewhere; don't forget it; in fact, cling to it.
Shelter, unicity, you+me (+no-one else).

It pulled you out. It'll damn well pull you through.

to be alone with you

Whether it's being still again with Sufjan Stevens;

reading the pixellated notes which express what matters; what the heart aches for; what changes lives, and gives today hope for someone whose day has known nothing but confusion;

looking back over files; folders; documents; reams; which try to express what you... well;

a rain shower which rings back to a time, a downpour on the grassy banks of a valley where things were very much connected and alone, didn't mean alone so much as, still;

alone with you.


The times we stop and wonder if there's work to be done on what's passed; to sort, to solve, to mull over, process, learn from, prevent from happening again; don't always happen when I'm [literally]
on my knees;

but rather when, breathing deeper than before, I come to know that it'll be alright. And more than that, that it'll be miraculous, and it'll be growth, and it'll be love which pushes ahead. As abstract as that, and no less clichéd.

To be alone with me.

good friday

There is a part.

This part is no-space, a
Part wherein
A dropped stitch
splits
The seam that runs
Between us, skin to skin.

And darkness covers this
Black skin of mine, black, dewy on the surface,
To trickle into gullies toward the
Line that almost bind us,
Almost.

In my mind, I'm speaking to the ocean's roar

Before the torrent comes.

And below the ocean, Jonah, under waves and breaking swell to a weakness on the deep floor, to depths, to heights, to incomprehensible movement and confusion and beauty in the dark-black bubbles that rush before your eyes.


i.
Now I'm in a room. It's a pistachio room. And above there are concentric rings of plaster and gilt and smoothness and beauty which begin to the right of me, and all around me, in fact, in front of me… but the ones to the right, they narrow as they travel my way, my eyes' way, upturned eyes, they’re no longer parallel, they muse and fold and fuse and drift and crash into each other and the lines are so close that they’re not lines anymore.

So close as to be... more than close.
So close.

ii.
And its the tension between two things. I can't deal this. And
I want not
to be able to
deal
with this.

So close.

iii.
Then the weather starts up again. And I wonder why it's threatening the downpour and to pour out and pour, and at night things are still and there's blossom under which to stand, and by morning the trees are raging at the window, shot leaves whose undersides are dirty to me, violated in the gusts which I can hear through the half-wall window and then even inside, and the muffling of sirens. To rain.

But I know, from within that place so close.

Somebody, hold me too close

Deep calls to deep,
in the roar of your waterfalls;

all your waves and breakers have swept over me.

the grasp

Articulate my failure
And I’ll receive in our embrace
Take my yearning from me

And I’ll put it to good
Use; it if only you’ll use
Me.


He’s standing next to me.
Set my spirit free.