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Antidotes
Gold is not the first word. Gold is not the last word.
the desert dust-fires in autumnal colours; a sky blue sheen, Sahara, a sudden
flash Ð oasis or mirage, this is not the number, these are not the colours
no weight, no shape, no clocks in the waves, these are not sand dunes, no, we
are not there yet, we are alone, we are not where we are heading, the car is
speeding through dreams alive with pixies and clarinets, nightmares, yellow
ribbons chocking oak trees
I have never seen the gold coast or its gold when it is a deep stream roaring
down the throat of gold sunlit roads, kissing the lips of the orchards in
bloom, kissing diamond lined valleys, kissing the young girls in love,
kissing their kisses, brides made of paper boats marrying hurricanes
I do not want to hold you Ð I do not want you to hold me
stare at the pavement and disintegrate, as you walk shadows batter your
eyelids and the blue veins of a river bubble into your blue veined wrists,
walk from the station to the sea, there are often cracks or ghosts walking
eyes down, do not look up until your feet are lapped by water, walk out, walk
further, walk forever
Florida is open, her petrol will burn us through winter
the stars might crash into stars to make new stars
when I arrive I will be dripping with passages of time, I will taste of
America.
a taste that is deafening, a taste that is blue
red and black, but not the numbers and
not the colours
*
I have antidotes for when the clowns collapse with hysterics, or if
we are buried like squares in circles of squares, I have spades, royal cards,
I have the answers in lilly-white riddles, mad hatters and jam tarts, I have
laughing gas, agent orange, chloroform
evergreen, holy like a hand grenade, the smooth dip of the Granada plains,
the cats in the alleyways drunk on champagne, the refrain, there is no
refrain, there is danger in the sandcastles built like blemishes on the
moon's skin
the empire grows overnight, umbrellas and umbilical cords, parades and
parasites, elves chewing paracetamol, salad for new lovers, parrots for old
lovers, a willow tree leaning into a lagoon strung with jewels, the wind
through the willow whispers a name, it is a name I do not want to hear
when the jewels drop they illuminate the lagoon, in different colours, one by
one, lit up like goose fayre Sundays, it is not the Northern lights
it is not soft like when I whispered 'I love you', it is older and broken, a
hymn to empty space, fine wines shelved in green bottles, a resolution to
move forward, I don't need her
and if I can't stop loving her, I can stop wanting too.
*
Terror: the terror of creating, the terror of the ideas of others, the terror
of being alive
Huge clouds swirl over waving cornfields, visions of a lost era, of freedom
by beach huts and prayers to the candle light, midnight oysters by the
swings, under the stars
I sit alone at night staring into grey distances, which direction does the
cigarette point? What direction is the morning?
I wander down roads as they grow older inside me
(a hall of mirrors) (reflects) (a hall of mirrors)
(one day everything will turn back to dust)
'New York was
beautiful late summer, by the East River, there were whole acres of light'
'New York will
still be beautiful for others'
'I remember
when you would arrive home with the sunset on the breath, your lips would let
out butterflies, your eyes had something of the autumn evening in their fire'
I've carried all
of these words since birth, how else could I speak? Every word is built in
the melody of the past, words cannot exist without what has come before, blue
songs bitten by rainbow children, come, I know where to find the pots of gold
unfulfilled lovers eating salad by the Seine
the bells of Notre Dame ring, all is not over, the bells will ring again
*
White cherry blossom outlined by a white sky
if we ever married our wedding would not be white
the sun would not shine, the trees would be black and all the children would
cry
but it might be better than being alone, only,
to not be alone,
look how the sea comes alive Spring: waves of weeping treacle, glittering
indigo, wind chimes chiming by the window, the flames of madness in the
meditating mind, spinning zodiac signs, breakfast in Versailles, the palace
garden yawning and open, boring after the second time
life begins with water, life ends in a wave, the endless sprawl of the city
mapping its decay, ghost towns and abandoned arcades, the loneliness of empty
lawns, every blade of grass crying
new moons frightened of old moons
figureheads in lunchboxes, hunchbacks on parkbenches, love songs and
bitterness, where will you go when you have boiled your tears?
I walk out the streets to their call, there are no choirs here, the
hemisphere ends or begins at Wall Street where I eat soup surrounded by grey,
blue, black suits, I am oblivious to my surroundings, I am a world they
cannot see into, Manhattan aches with what it wanted to be, not New York
New Amsterdam, the waves breaking against a lost America, the pearls are bled
in porcelain, propane, phenol, Walt Whitman wandering away with a shovel,
this is the street where Crane met Lorca, they didn't understand each other,
this is the street,
where I sat in the park imagining blank clouds, neon light fixed the hole in
my head, now I can sleep sunburnt until summer, now I can scatter uranium
dipped seeds and drink tears of gold
my cup is for vowels,
the colours I learnt in French, perhaps they are the numbers, for
they gave birth to the colours
*
What do you see when you stare at a gravestone? Do you know this is your
future? Does it make it easier, having a destination?
I do not mean to be bleak, I was in the Hospital where he died, in
Marseilles, I have a photo, I have no idea where his body is, probably sent
back to the North
do you know that in Africa he wrote much more, and of such brilliance, so
much better for not being read, only: I have read it as I moved through
shades of night
a secret history
that saw the desert in autumn's colour, sky blue Sahara, joyriding through
constellations, asteroids for chariots, all the moon's white paint waxing in
wonder
eighty thousand heart attacks. Brooklyn will dance no longer, Kim Novak Grace
Kelly Marilyn Monroe, all ages and ghosts, the velvet screens, the city has
changed
the human heart has changed, the direction I gave, to walk naked from Tulsa
to the garden state, there the night is heavy and red, there there is a look
in your eye
I know what is says: 'forget America, the American dream is an empty shell',
lilacs blow and bow in the doorway, and if I disappoint, I apologize, there
are thrills
that come as I approach the coastline, there is a tingle in my fingers as I
step out on Mulholland Drive, I know about the poems in me, they are
antidotes
charms presented to be viewed at your leisure. Alaska, the game is up, I
reach the water and it drowns in me, one by one the words disappear. I swim
in the ocean, it bursts with new life.
© Charlie Baylis 2015
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