FILM
ROLLS ON
grains, congeals into-
You
and I.
No
breath between us and Bathsheba.
Our
hips drawn together, a dance, inside Museé Du Lourve.
Later
we will recreate the scene in a small apartment,
I
kneel at your feet.
No
breath between us but an echo where fingers and hips find rhythms.
The
drip
drip
drip
of
the brass taps, keep your tempo.
The
greatest and most natural movement.
Later
we wake and walk the dusk light
To
buy groceries.
In
those days you would hold my hand in secret,
And
when I fell asleep
You’d
trace letters on my wrists.
Messages
to me.
Nothing
as sacred as those days in what follows.
Months
bleed journeys
NEXT
CLIP
We smoke cigarettes outside jazz
clubs in the dark monotone of an acid ridden New York.
NEXT
CLIP
We lock our hearts to the
Charles Bridge and, dancing on the banks of the Mala Strana, throw away the
keys.
NEXT
CLIP
We take taxis around London,
finding our palms crossed and our gazes averted in the back of black cabs.
NEXT
CLIP
One
day to return, we said, to Paris,
Aching
in our poverty .
When
commodity appears it is indeed
A
very queer thing.
Painfully
fashionable, we said, to revisit
The
café where we had once drunk
From
chipped china cups.
Dutiful
symmetry
To
find the city
Abounding
in metaphysical
Subtleties
and theological niceties.
FILM
ROLLS ON
This
summer it will be five years too late to
kiss
your fingers.
Five
years too late to
lay
you down amongst your father’s book.
Let
me make you a pillow of the Oxford Dictionary and play your favourite record.
FILM
ROLLS
Crystallises
the curve of your smile.
In
the years that follow
Bombs
cry down.
Each
shivering and shining
Like
the teardrops on windows in Paris.
Like
the slow drip of the tap.
Back
to that scene, Rembrandt looks on.
In
a sentimental anomaly
I
still hold the messages you left on my wrists.
I
still read your letters
Cream
paper, frayed edges.
I
still smile when the calendar graces your birthday.
News of you came just three days
after. In photographs I reconcile your smile with my laughter. What followed
you was a five year winter. No breath between us, no more scenes to capture.
I
still dust your records each November.
It
is five years too late to play them
FILM
ROLLS ON
devoid
of action