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Wave
In
memory of Patrick Sweeney
i
A ruined sheet of notes on a bench, loose wood cuttings, the bruised black
chips of a heavy defeat, the swing of a love song
a wing or a bone in mercury, a thread of red and silver threading through the
red and silver sky
I assume there would have been silence at the end, a bruised cheek wearing a
death mask for when the glitter fell and the curtains closed
'that's it folks', no more laughter now, lips sewn together in a sick half
smile, yellowing skin pressed into a box, the that's your friend there,
you know
I know
memory echo, polka dot of moon, the thick hand of a wave writing words on
water, I have a badge and a bucket, pressed apple juice and a green fountain
pen, a notebook for my memories of the sea
today the tarot cards all read murder, but anyway I don't read tarot
when you cry in your sleep all I see is an ocean in the eye of a needle
that wave, the one towering above us, that is the wave I want to ride, in the
neon sun daydreaming of the eternity that spills through my hands onto a
dandelion speckled field, pie bald donkeys, horses crunching polo mints
all day at play in wild diamond waves, dear Pat, the coins of your body have
been spent on toothpicks and violet reeds, there are pink children playing
hopscotch in the graveyard, laughing at clouds
dear pat: come back some time for a taste of fruit and a sip of Chinese tea
come back sometime to stare into a mirror that is ever receding, to stare at
pictures of yourself, young, old, adult, we are all the same years you know
since your years have melted
come back some time and throw cutlery on the ceiling, you were born with jazz
hands and a wide grin, dancing a jig in salute of an Irish relative, crazier
than a lettuce leaf, what was that song you were always whistling? Whistle
it.
come back to wrap a banana in cellophane, roll it down a river, down a
stream, merrily, merrily
come back to a kitchen invaded by jam jar lids and where is all the jam?
come back and hold a cup of cinnamon and a cup of melting pearl, mix them
together
at least, Pat, come back sometime
ii
I'm not sure of the angel I hold in my head as I type, toothless and crinkled
like bruised velvet, in the same way I am not sure of my feelings, I'm so
scared to type the next word in case it is the wrong word, I am sure it is
the wrong word
I haven't spoken to you in how many years Š though I hold your memory fondly
the same way a golfer might remember a complete fluke, a dazzling stroke of
luck, the ball bouncing in off a rainbow
every word a blur on the ink stained wind, this is what you were: mercurial,
a boy of lampposts and wonder, the world is sad for your departure, happy to
see your sadness dissipate into the odious smoke and horror of London
occasionally the world will lift you blue balloon's and white paper
aeroplanes, it would be a good idea to catch them
parrots might throw up their wings and chirp, the ones that are uncaged,
blood on their beaks, free from the prison of the aviary
I don't think I will see you again, but I am not a hypnotist, I do not have
snake's eyes, or sport a stirrup and a bow tie, I am not an alchemist, I am
not attracted to iron fillings
I hold one leg in cancer and one leg in capricorn, balanced on an oval, the
equator is my belt, I feel quite unwell, ready to feint into the daisies, I
pray I never follow you, though many times I've wanted to
death star, mortal coil, you are paving a path of light for the acacias to
tremble in, orange leaves loose in autumn burn to a fine soft gold, but I
will not follow you, I have work to do
I havenÕt finished saying what I've started to say or
or smearing lipstick over my lips, in a way that is completely ridiculous
and understood by no one but myself
iii
perhaps you have gone to sew nectarine in the sunset
perhaps you have gone to stitch a silver lining to the storm clouds
when you cut your long hair into a quiff you told us 'the ladies are
loving it'
when you knocked
over a cocktail then knocked over a whole tray of cocktails by way of apology
when you walked through the doors of ruby tuesday's looked around in disgust
and went straight back home
when you zipped writer's beginning with Z to your bibliography, for the sake
of the alphabet, jazz on your pizza and Zanzibar in your dreamz
you tell me hell is a cold limousine circling Gibraltar, stopping at every
traffic light under the metallic sky. The lead clouds are sinking, they are
the clouds in which we will one day suffocate
you tell me it's considerate to write a poem, I wrote a poem about you
before, but let's forget our fight about the washing powder, the mess in the
kitchen, the money we owed to the debt collectors of glasgow
all that's left is to celebrate, after the storms or the threat of rain I
look up and see the weather has changed, the sun has brought a sense of calm
to our bones
Patrick Sweeney I salute you, here are two coins for your eyes for the
underworld ride, have a good trip old friend, arriva derci, bon voyage!
iv
notes towards a definition of death
death is an ulcer
on the sun
death is a vampire butterfly, the black one, the one that eats moths with
little dagger like teeth
death is a lingering taste of mould in a mouth, rotten and caved in
surrounded by an explosion of ill sunflowers
death is charles pierre baudelaire sitting in a grey garden in the evening
sipping rose water as edouard manet talks about the colour of his toes,
headless, telling him that the colour is indescribable
death is a clock with seven slight hands all pointing at each other
death is a tin cup kicked to the gutter by a generation (rhyme abandoned for
abstract metaphor) tell me where is the tin can?
death is the petal of flesh cut for the eighth wound, the flesh twists
upwards as it hits the floor, an emblem of a soul in torment
death is an ever growing cancer in a pretty heart, ripping at the walls and
knocking out vessels, ugly, frigid and spineless
death is the final salute of the trumpet, babies washed in blue and ready for
a long journey into the unknown, apple star, moss covered cow, come gather
your tears and throw them to the waves
death is none of these things, death is all of these things, each word in
stone laid in a place to conquer, lost clowns, heavy eyelids and now my
ruined sheet of notes has vanished from the bench.
© Charlie Baylis 2016
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